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THE  LIBRARY 

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THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 


PRESENTED  BY 
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A    BED    OF    ROSES 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  •  •  BY 
W.  L.  GEORGE 

AUTHOR  OF  'ENGINES  OF  SOCIAL 
PROGRESS,'  •  •  'FRANCE  IN  THE 
TWENTIETH  CENTURY,'  &c. 


It's  not  work  that  any  woman  would  do  for  pleasure, 
goodness  knows ;  though  to  hear  the  pious  people  talk 
you  would  suppose  It  was  a  bed  of  roses.  Mrs  Warren's 
Profession  •  By  G.  Bernard  Shaw. 


AUTHORISED  EDITION 


BRENTANO'S  •  NEW  YORK 
MCMXI 


FOURTH    EDITION 


PART  I 


.College 
labrary 

Col3 


CHAPTER  I 

*  We  go.'  The  lascar  meditatively  pressed  his  face, 
brown  and  begrimed  with  coal  dust,  streaked  here 
and  there  with  sweat,  against  the  rope  which  formed 
the  rough  bulwark.  His  dark  eyes  were  fixed  on  tlic 
shore,  near  by,  between  which  and  the  ship's  side  the 
water  quivered  quicker  and  quicker  in  little  ripples, 
each  ripple  carrying  an  iridescent  film  of  grey  ooze. 
Without  joy  or  sadness  he  was  bidding  goodbj'^e  to 
Bombay,  his  city.  Those  goodbyes  are  often  farewells 
for  lascars  who  must  face  the  Bay  and  the  Channel. 
But  the  stoker  did  not  care. 

His  companion  lay  by  his  side,  lazily  propped  up 
on  his  elbow,  not  deigning  even  to  take  a  last  look 
at  the  market  place,  seething  still  with  its  crowded 
reds  and  blues  and  golds.  '  Dekko  ! '  cried  the  first 
stoker  pointing  to  the  wharf  where  a  white  man  in 
a  dirty  smock  had  just  cast  off  the  last  rope,  which 
came  away  swishing  thi'ough  the  air. 

His  companion  did  not  raise  his  eyes.  Slowly  he 
tilted  up  his  pannikin  and  let  the  water  flow  in 
a  thin  stream  into  his  mouth,  keeping  the  metal  away 
from  his  lips.  Then,  careless  of  the  land  of  Akbar, 
he  let  himself  sink  on  the  deck  and  composed  himself 
to  sleep.     India  was  no  concern  of  his. 

A  few  yards  away  a  woman  watched  them  absently 
from  the  upper  deck.  She  was  conscious  of  them, 
conscious  too  of  the  slow  insistent  buzzing  of  a  gad- 


2  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

fly.  Her  eyes  slowly  shifted  to  the  shore,  passed  over 
the  market  place,  stopped  at  the  Fort.  There,  in.  the 
open  space,  a  troop  was  drilling,  white  and  speckless, 
alertl}'  wlieeling  at  the  word  of  command.  Her  eyes 
were  still  fixed  on  the  group  as  the  ship  imperceptibly 
receded  fi'om  the  shore,  throbbing  steadily  as  tbe 
boilers  got  up  steam.  A  half-naked  brown  boy  was 
racing  along  the  wharf  to  gain  a  start  and  beat  the 
vessel  before  she  reached  the  military  crane.    • 

The  woman  turned  away.  She  was  neither  tall  nor 
short :  she  did  not  attract  attention  overmuch  but  sbe 
was  one  of  those  who  retain  such  attention  as  they 
draw.  She  was  clad  entirely  in  black ;  her  face 
seemed  to  start  forward  intensified.  Her  features  were 
regular ;  her  mouth  small.  Her  skin,  darkened  by  the 
shadow  of  a  broad  brimmed  hat,  blushed  still  darker 
at  the  cheeks.  The  attraction  was  all  in  the  eyes, 
large  and  grey,  suggestive  of  energy  without  emotion. 
Her  chin  was  square,  perhaps  too  thick  in  the  jaw. 

She  turned  once  more  and  leant  against  the  bulwark. 
A  yard  away  another  woman  was  also  standing,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  shore,  on  a  figure  who  waited  motion- 
less on  the  fast  receding  wharf.  As  the  steamer  kept 
on  her  course  the  woman  craned  forward,  saw  once 
more  and  then  lost  sight  of  the  lonely  figure.  She 
was  small,  fair,  a  little  insignificant,  and  dressed  all 
in  white  drill. 

The  steamer  had  by  now  attained  half  speed.  The 
shore  was  streaming  by.  The  second  woman  turned 
her  back  on  the  bulwark,  looked  about  aimlessly, 
then,  perceiving  her  neighbour,  impulsively  went  up 
to  her  and  stood  close  beside  her. 

The  two  women  did  not  speak,  but  remained 
watching  the  shoals  fly  past.  Far  away  a  train  in 
Kolaba  puffed  up  sharp  bursts  of  smoke  into  the  blue 
air.  There  was  nothing  to  draw  the  attention  of  the 
beholder  in  that  interminable  shore,  low-lying  and 
muddy,  splashed  here  and  there  Avith  ragged  trees. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  3 

Tt  was  a  desert  almost,  save  for  a  village  built  between 
two  swamps.  Here  and  then  smoke  arose,  brown 
and  peaty  from  a  bonfire.  In  tbe  evening  ligbt  the 
sun's  declining  rays  lit  up  with  radiance  the  red  speck 
of  a  heavy  shawl  on  the  tiny  figure  of  a  brown  girl. 

Little  by  little,  as  the  ship  entered  the  fairway,  the 
shore  receded  almost  into  nothingness.  The  two 
women  still  watched,  while  India  merged  into  shadow. 
It  was  the  second  hour  and,  as  the  ship  slowly  turned 
towards  the  west,  the  women  watched  the  great 
cocoanut  trees  turn  into  black  specks  upon  Maria 
point.  Then,  slowly,  the  shore  sank  into  the  dark 
sea  until  it  was  gone  and  nothing  was  left  of  India 
save  the  vaguely  paler  night  that  tells  of  land  and 
the  even  fainter  white  spears  of  the  distant  light. 

For  a  moment  they  stood  still,  side  by  side.  Then 
the  fair  woman  suddenly  put  her  hand  on  her  com- 
panion's arm.     *  I'm  cold,'  she  said,  *  let's  go  below.' 

The  dark  girl  looked  at  her  sympathetically.  '  Yes,' 
she  said,  '  let's,  who'd  have  thought  we  wanted  to  see 
more  of  the  beastly  country  than  we  could  help.  .  .  . 
I  say,  what's  the  matter,  Molly  ?  ' 

Molly  was  still  looking  towards  the  light ;  one  of 
her  feet  tapped  the  deck  nervously ;  she  fumbled  for 
her  handkerchief.  'Nothing,  nothing,'  she  said  in- 
distinctly, *  come  and  unpack.'  She  turned  away 
from  her  companion  and  quickly  walked  towards  the 
gangway. 

The  dark  girl  looked  once  more  into  the  distance 
where  even  the  searchlight  had  waned.  *  Vic  ! '  cried 
the  fair  girl  querulously,  half  way  up  the  deck.  '  All 
right,  I'm  coming,'  replied  the  woman  in  black.  She 
looked  again  at  the  pale  horizon  into  which  India  had 
faded,  at  the  deck  before  her  where  a  little  black 
cluster  of  people  had  formed  to  look  their  last  upon  the 
light.     Then  she  turned  and  followed  her  companion. 

The  cabin  was  on  the  lower  deck,  small,  stuffy  in 
the  extreme.     Its  two  grave-like  bimks,  its  drop  table, 


4  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

even  its  exiguous  armchair  promised  no  comfort.  On 
the  worn  carpet  the  pattern  had  almost  vanished ; 
alone  the  official  numerals  on  the  edge  stared  forth. 
For  half  an  hour  the  two  women  unpacked  in  silence  ; 
Molly  knelt  by  the  side  of  her  trunk  delving  into  it, 
dragging  out  garments  which  she  tried  to  find  room 
for  on  the  scanty  pegs.  Her  companion  merely  raised 
the  lid  of  her  trunk  to  ease  the  pressure  on  her 
clothes,  and  placed  a  small  dressing-case  on  the  drop 
table.  Once  she  would  have  spoken  but,  at  that 
moment,  a  faint  sob  came  from  Molly's  kneeling  form. 
She  went  up  to  her,  put  her  arm  about  her  neck  and 
kissed  her  cheek.  She  undressed  wearily,  climbed 
into  the  upper  berth.  Soon  Molly  did  likewise,  after 
turning  down  the  light.  For  a  while  she  sighed 
and  turned  uneasily ;  then  she  became  quieter,  her 
breathing  more  measured,  and  she  slept. 

Victoria  Fulton  lay  in  her  berth,  her  eyes  wide 
open,  glued  to  the  roof  a  foot  or  so  above  her  face. 
It  was  very  like  a  coffin,  she  thought,  perhaps  a  suit- 
able enough  habitation  for  her,  but  at  present,  not  in 
the  least  tempting.  A  salutary  capacity  for  optimism 
was  enabling  her  to  review  the  past  three  years  and  to 
speculate  about  the  future.  Not  that  either  was  very 
rosy,  especially  the  future. 

The  steady  throb  of  the  screw  pulsated  through  the 
stuffy  cabin,  and  blended  with  the  silence  broken  only 
by  Molly's  regular  breathing  in  the  lower  berth. 
Victoria  could  not  help  remembering  other  nights 
passed  also  in  a  stuffy  little  cabin,  where  the  screw 
was  throbbing  as  steadily,  and  when  the  silence  was 
broken  by  breathing  as  regular,  but  a  little  heavier. 
Three  years  only,  and  she  was  going  home.  But  now 
she  was  leaving  behind  her  the  high  hopes  she  had 
brought  with  her. 

She  was  no  exception  to  the  common  rule,  and 
memories,  whether  bitter  or  sweet,  had  always 
bridged  for  her  the  gulf  between  wakefulness  and 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  5 

sleep.  And  what  could  be  more  natural  than  to  recall 
those  nights,  three  years  ago,  when  eveiy  beat  of  that 
steady  screw  was  bringing  her  nearer  to  the  country 
where  her  young  husband  was,  according  to  his  mood, 
going  to  win  the  V.C,  trace  the  treasure  stolen  from 
a  Begum,  or  become  military  member  on  the  Viceroy's 
Council?  Poor  old  Dicky,  she  thought,  perhaps  it 
was  as  well  he  did  not  live  to  see  himself  a  major,  old 
and  embittered,  with  all  those  hopes  behind  him. 

There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes  when  she  thought 
of  Fulton.  The  good  old  days,  the  officers'  ball  at 
Lympton  when  she  danced  with  him  half  the  night, 
the  rutty  lane  where  they  met  to  sit  on  a  bank  of 
damp  moss  smelling  of  earth  and  crushed  leaves,  and 
the  crumbling  little  church  where  she  became  Fulton's 
wife,  all  that  was  far  away.  How  dulled  it  all  was  too 
by  those  three  years  during  which,  in  the  hot  moist 
air  of  the  plains,  she  had  seen  him  degenerate,  his 
skin  lose  his  freshness,  his  eyelids  pucker  and  gather 
pouches,  his  tongue  grow  ever  more  bitter  as  he 
attempted  to  still  with  whisky  the  drunkard's  chronic 
thirst.  She  could  not  even  slmdder  at  the  thought  of 
all  it  had  meant  for  her,  at  the  horror  of  seeing  him 
become  every  day  more  stupefied,  at  the  savage  out- 
bursts of  the  later  days,  at  the  last  scenes,  crude  and 
physically  foul.  Three  years  liad  taught  her  brain 
dullness  to  such  scenes  as  those. 

The  tragedy  of  Fulton  was  a  common  enough  thing. 
Heat,  idleness,  temporary  afiQuence,  all  those  things 
that  do  not  let  a  man  see  that  life  is  blessed  only  by 
the  works  that  enable  him  to  forget  it,  had  pla^'-ed 
havoc  with  him.  He  had  followed  up  his  initial  error 
of  coming  into  the  world  at  all  by  marrying  a  woman 
who  neither  cajoled  or  coerced  him.  With  the  best  of 
intentions  she  had  bored  him  to  extinction.  His 
interest  in  things  became  slender  ;  he  drank  himself 
to  death,  and  not  even  the  ghost  of  his  self  lived  to 
grieve  by  his  bedside. 


6  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

In  spite  of  everything  it  liad  not  been  a  bad  life 
in  its  way.  Victoria  bad  been  tbe  belle,  in  spite  of 
Mrs  Major  Dartle  and  her  peroxidised  tresses.  And 
there  had  been  polo  (Dicky  always  would  have  three 
ponies  and  refused  thi*ee  hundred  guineas  for 
Tagrag),  and  regimental  dances  and  gymkhanas  and 
what  not.  Under  the  sleepy  sun  these  three  years 
liad  passed,  not  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  but  slowly, 
dreamily,  in  the  unending  routine  of  marches, 
inspections,  migi-ations  to  and  from  the  hills.  The 
end  had  come  quickly.  One  day  they  carried  Dick 
Fulton  all  the  way  from  the  mess  and  laid  him  under 
his  own  verandah.  The  fourth  day  he  died  of 
cirrhosis  of  the  Hver.  Even  Mrs  Major  Dartle  who 
formally  called  and  lit  up  the  darkened  room  with 
the  meretricious  glow  of  her  curls  hinted  that  it  was  a 
happy  release.  The  station  in  general  had  no  doubt 
as  to  the  person  for  whom  release  had  come. 

As  Victoria  lay  in  the  coffin-like  berth  she  vainly 
tried  to  analyse  her  feeling  for  Fulton.  The  three 
years  had  drawn  over  her  past  something  like  a 
veil  behind  which  she  could  see  the  dim  shapes  of 
her  impressions  dancing  like  ghostly  marionettes. 
She  knew  that  she  had  loved  him  with  the  discreet 
passion  of  an  Englishwoman.  He  had  burst  in  upon 
her  ravished  soul  like  the  materialised  dream  of  a 
schoolgirl ;  he  had  been  adorably  careless,  adorably 
rakish.  For  a  whole  year  all  his  foibles  had  been 
charms  in  so  far  as  they  made  the  god  more  human, 
nearer  to  her.  Then,  one  night,  he  had  returned 
home  so  drurk  as  to  fall  prostrate  on  the  tiles  of  the 
verandah  and  sleep  there  until  next  morning.  She 
had  not  dared  to  call  the  ayah  or  the  butler  and,  as 
she  could  not  rouse  or  lift  him,  she  had  left  him 
lying  there  under  some  rugs  and  mosquito  netting. 

During  the  rest  of  that  revolutionary  night  she 
had  not  slept,  nor  had  she  found  the  relief  of  tears 
that  is  given  most  women.     Hot  waves  of  indignation 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  7 

flowed  over  her.  She  wanted  to  get  up,  to  stamp 
with,  rage,  to  kick  the  disgraceful  thing  on  the 
tiles.  She  held  herself  down,  however,  or  perhaps 
the  tradition  of  the  English  counties  whispered  to 
her  that  anything  was  preferable  to  scandal,  that 
crises  must  be  noiseless.  When  dawn  came  and 
she  at  last  managed  to  arouse  Fulton  by  flooding  his 
head  with  the  contents  of  the  water  jug,  the  hot  fit 
was  gone.  She  felt  cold,  too  aloof,  too  far  away 
from  him  to  hate  him,  too  petrified  to  reproach  him. 

Fulton  took  no  notice  of  the  incident.  He  was 
still  young  and  vigorous  enough  to  shake  off  within 
a  few  hours  the  effects  of  the  drink.  Besides  he 
seldom  mentioned  things  that  affected  their  relations  ; 
in  the  keep  of  his  heart  he  hid  the  resentment  of  a 
culprit  against  the  one  who  has  caught  him  in 
the  act.  He  confined  his  conversation  to  daily 
happenings;  in  moments  of  expansion  he  tallied 
of  the  future.  They  did  not,  however,  draw  nearer 
one  another;  thus  the  evolution  of  their  marriage 
tended  inevitably  to  draw  them  apart.  Victoria 
was  no  longer  angiy,  but  she  was  frightened  because 
she  had  been  frightened  and  she  hated  the  source 
of  her  fear.  Fulton,  thick  skinned  as  he  was,  felt 
their  estrangement  keenly.  He  grew  to  hate  his  wife ; 
it  almost  made  him  wish  to  hurt  her  again.  So  he 
absented  himself  more  often,  drank  more,  then  died. 
His  wife  was  free.  So  this  was  freedom.  Freedom, 
a  word  to  conjure  with,  thought  Victoria,  Avhen  one 
is  enslaved  and  meaning  very  little  when  one  is  free. 
She  was  able  to  do  what  she  liked  and  wished  to  do 
nothing.  Of  course  things  would  smooth  themselves 
out :  they  always  did,  even  though  the  smoothing 
process  might  be  lengthy.  They  must  do  so,  but 
how?  There  were  friends  of  course,  and  Ted,  and 
thirty  pounds  of  Consols  unless  they'd  gone  down 
again,  as  safe  investments  are  wont  to  do.  She 
would  have  to  do  some  work.     Rather  funny,  but 


8  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

how  jolly  to  draw  your  first  nionth's  or  week's 
salary  ;  everybody  said  it  was  a  proud  moment.  Of 
course  it  would  have  to  be  earned,  but  that  did  not 
matter:  everybody  had  to  earn  what  they  got,  she 
supposed,  and  they  ought  to  enjoy  doing  it.  Old 
Fiynn,  the  D.C.,  used  to  say  that  work  was  a  re- 
munerative occupation  you  didn't  like,  but  then  he 
had  been  twenty  years  in  India. 

Molly  turned  uneasily  in  her  bunk  and  settled 
down  again.  Victoria's  train  of  thought  was  broken 
and  she  could  not  detach  her  attention  from  the  very 
gentle  snore  that  came  from  the  lower  berth,  a  snore 
gentle  but  so  insidious  that  it  seemed  to  dominate 
the  steady  beat  of  the  screw.  Througli  the  porthole, 
over  which  now  there  raced  some  flecks  of  sp'ray, 
she  could  see  nothing  but  the  blackness  of  the  sky, 
a  blackness  which  at  times  turned  to  grey  whenever 
the  still  inkier  sea  appeared.  The  cabin  seemed  black 
and  empty,  lit  up  faintly  by  a  white  skirt  flung  on 
a  chair.  Slowly  Victoria  sank  into  sleep,  conscious 
of  a  half  dream  of  England  where  so  many  unknow- 
able things  must  happen. 


CHAPTER  n 

*  No,  Molly,  I  don't  think  it's  very  nice  of  yon,'  said 
Victoria,  '  we've  been  out  four  days  and  I've  done 
nothing  but  mope  and  mope ;  it's  all  very  well  my 
being  a  widow  and  all  that :  I'm  not  suggesting 
you  and  I  should  play  hop  scotch  on  deck  with  the 
master  gunner,  but  for  four  days  I've  been  reading 
a  three  months  old  Harper  s  and  the  memoirs  of 
Mademoiselle  de  I  don't  know  what,  and  .  .  .' 

*  But  what  have  I  done  ?  '  cried  Molly. 

'I'm  bored,'  replied  Victoria,  with  admirable 
detachment,  *  and  what's  more,  I  don't  intend  to 
go  on  being  bored  for  another  fortnight ;  I'm  going 
on  deck  to  find  somebody  to  amuse  me.* 

*  You  can't  do  that,'  said  Molly,  *  they're  washing  it.' 

*  Very  well,  then,  I'll  go  and  watch  and  sing  songs 
to  the  men.'  Victoria  glared  at  her  unoffending 
companion,  her  lips  tightening  and  her  jaw  growing 
ominously  squarer. 

'  But  my  dear  girl,'  said  Molly,  *  I'm  awfully  sorry. 
I  didn't  know  you  cared ;  come  and  have  a  game 
of  quoits  with  me  and  old  Cairns.  There's  a  place 
behind  the  companion  which  I  should  say  nobody 
ever  does  wash.' 

Victoria  was  on  the  point  of  answering  that  she 
hated  quoits  as  she  never  scored  and  they  were 
generally  dirty,  but  the  prospect  of  returning  to  the 
ancient  Harper  s  was  not  alluring,  so  she  followed 
Molly  to  tlie  hatchway  and  climbed  up  to  the  upper 
deck  still  shining  moist  and  white.     Apparently  they 


10  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

would  not  have  to  play  behind  the  companion.  Four 
men  were  leaning  against  the  bulwarks,  looking  out 
at  nothing  as  people  do  on  board  ship.  Victoria 
just  had  time  to  notice  a  very  broad  flannel-clad 
back  surmounted  by  a  thick  neck,  while  Molly  went 
up  to  the  last  man  and  unceremoniously  prodded  him 
in  the  ribs. 

*  Wake  up,  Bobby,'  she  said,  '  I'm  waiting.' 

The  men  all  wheeled  round  suddenly.  The  broad 
man  stepped  forward  quickly  and  shook  hands  with 
Molly.  Then  he  took  a  critical  look  at  Victoria.  The 
three  young  men  struggled  for  an  absurd  little  bag 
which  Molly  always  dropped  at  the  right  moment. 

'  How  do  you  do,  Mrs  Fulton,'  said  the  broad  man 
stretching  out  his  hand.     Victoria  took  it  hesitatingly. 

'  Don't  you  remember  me  ? '  he  said.  '  My  name's 
Cairns.  Major  Cairns.  You  know.  Travancores. 
Met  you  at  His  Excellency's  hop. 

Of  course  she  remembered  him.  He  was  so  typical. 
Anybody  could  have  told  his  profession  and  his  rank 
at  sight.  He  had  a  broad  humorous  face,  tanned 
over  freckled  pink.  Since  he  left  Wellington  he  had 
grown  a  little  in  every  direction  and  had  become  a 
large  middle  aged  boy.  Victoria  took  him  in  at  one 
look.  A  square  face  such  as  that  of  Cairns,  distinctly 
chubby,  framing  grey  blue  eyes,  was  as  easily  recalled 
as  forgotten.  She  took  in  his  forehead,  high  and 
likely  to  become  higher  as  his  hair  receded ;  his 
straight  aggressive  nose ;  his  little  rough  moustache 
looking  like  nothing  so  much  as  a  ragged  strip  off  an 
Irish  terrier's  back. 

While  Victoria  was  wondering  what  to  say,  Molly, 
determined  to  show  her  that  she  was  not  going  to 
leave  her  out,  had  tlirust  her  three  henchmen 
forward. 

'This  is  Bobby,'  she  remarked.  Bobby  was  a 
taU  young  man  with  a  round  head,  bright  brown 
eyes  full  of  cheerfulness   and    hot    temper.      'And 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  n 

Captain  Alastair  ...  and  Mr  Parker.'  Alastair 
smiled.  Smiles  were  his  method  of  expression. 
Mr  Parker  bowed  rather  low  and  said  nothing.  He 
had  at  once  conceived  for  Victoria  the  mixture  of 
admiration  and  dislike  that  a  man  feels  towards  a 
woman  who  would  not  marry  him  if  she  knew  where 
he  had  been  to  school. 

'  I  hope,'  said  Mr  Parker  slowly,  *  that  your.  .  .  .* 
But  he  broke  off  suddenly,  realising  the  mourning 
and  feeling  the  ground  to  be  unsafe. 

*  Mr  Parker,  I've  been  looking  for  you  all  the  morning,' 
interjected  Molly,  with  intuition.  *You'\e  promised 
to  teach  me  to  judge  my  distance,'  and  she  cleverly 
pushed  Bobby  between  Mr  Parker  and  Victoria. 
'  Come  along,  and  you  Bobby,  you  can  pick  the  rings  up.' 

*  Right  0,'  said  Bobby  readily.  She  turned  towards 
the  stern  followed  by  the  obedient  Bobby  and 
Mr  Parker. 

Captain  Alastair  smiled  vacuously,  made  as  if  to 
follow  the  trio,  realising  that  it  was  a  false  start, 
swerved  back  and  finally  covering  his  confusion  by 
sliding  a  few  yards  onwards  to  tell  Mrs  Colonel 
Lanning  that  it  was  blowing  up  for  a  squall. 

Victoria  had  watched  the  little  incident  with 
amused  detachment. 

*  "Who  is  Mr  Parker  ?  '  she  enquired. 

*  Met  him  yesterday  for  the  first  time,'  said  Cairns, 
*  and  really  1  can't  say  I  want  to  know.  Might  be 
awkward.  Must  be  in  the  stores  or  something. 
Looks  to  me  like  a  cross  between  a  mute  and  a 
parson.     Bit  of  a  worm,  anyhow.' 

*  Oh,  he  didn't  hurt  my  feelings,'  remarked  Victoria ; 
'  but  some  men  never  know  what  women  have  got  on.' 
Cairns  looked  her  over  approvingly.  Shoddy-looking 
mourning.  Durzee  made  of  course.  But,  Lord,  what 
hands  and  eyes. 

'  I  daresay  not,'  he  said  drily.  '  I  wish  he'd  keep 
away  through.     Let's  walk  up.' 


19  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

He  took  a  stride  or  two  away  from  Alastair. 
Victoria  followed  him.  She  was  rather  taken  with 
his  rough  simplicity,  the  comfort  of  his  apparent 
obtuseness.     So  like  an  uncle,  she  thought. 

'  Well,  Mrs  Fulton,'  said  Cairns,  '  I  suppose  you're 
glad  to  be  here,  as  usual.' 

'  As  usual  ? ' 

'  Yes,  as  usual ;  people  are  always  glad  to  be  on 
board.  If  they're  going  home,  they're  going  home 
and  if  they're  going  out  they're  thinking  that  it's 
going  to  be  full  pay  instead  of  haK.' 

'  It  hadn't  struck  me  like  that,'  said  Victoria  with  a 
smile,  '  though  I  suppose  I  am  glad  to  go  home.' 

'  Funny,'  said  the  Major,  '  I  never  found  a  country 
like  India  to  make  people  want  to  come  to  it  and  to 
make  them  want  to  get  out  of  it  when  they  were 
there.  We  had  a  sub  once.  You  should  have  heard 
him  on  the  dead  cities.  Somewhere  south  east  of 
Hyderabad,  he  said.  And  native  jewellery,  and 
fakirism,  and  all  that.  He's  got  a  liver  now  .ind  the 
last  I  heard  of  him  was  that  he  put  his  shoulder  out 
at  polo.' 

Victoria  looked  out  over  the  immense  oily  greenness 
of  the  water.  Far  away  on  the  skyline  a  twirling 
wreath  of  smoke  showed  that  some  tramp  steamer 
was  passing  them  unseen.  The  world  was  between 
them  ;  they  were  crawling  on  one  side  of  the  ball  and 
the  tramp  on  the  other,  like  flies  on  an  orange.  Was 
that  tramp,  Bombay  bound,  carrying  more  than  a 
cargo  of  rolling  stock?  Perhaps  the  mate  had 
forgotten  his  B.S.A.  fittings  and  was  brooding,  he 
too,  over  the  dead  cities,  somewhere  south-east  of 
Hyderabad. 

'  No,'  repeated  Victoria  slowly,  *  it  hadn't  struck  me 
like  that.' 

Caims  looked  at  her  curiously.  He  had  heard  of 
Fulton  and  knew  of  the  manner  of  his  death.  He 
could  not  help   thinking   that  she  did  not  seem  to 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  13 

show  many  signs  of  a  recent  bereavement,  but  tben 
she  was  well  rid  of  Fulton.  Of  course  there  were 
other  things  too.  Going  back  as  the  widow  of  an 
Indian  officer  was  all  very  well  if  you  could  afford 
the  luxury,  but  if  you  couldn't,  well  it  couldn't  be 
much  catch.  So,  being  thirty  eight  or  so,  he  prudently 
directed  the  conversation  towards  the  customary  sub- 
jects discussed  on  board  a  trooper:  the  abominable 
accommodation  and  the  appalling  incompetency  of 
the  government  with  regard  to  the  catering, 

Victoria  listened  to  him  placidly.  His  ancient 
tittle-tattle  had  been  made  familiar  to  her  by  three 
years'  association  with  his  fellows,  and  she  had 
learned  that  she  need  not  say  much,  as  his  one  wish 
was  naturally  to  revile  the  authorities  and  all  their 
work.     But  one  item  interested  her. 

*  After  all,'  he  said,  '  I  don't  see  why  I  should  talk. 
I've  had  enough  of  it.  I'm  sending  in  my  papers  as 
soon  as  I've  settled  a  small  job  at  Perim.  I'll  get 
back  to  Aden  and  shake  all  that  beastly  Asiatic 
dust  off  my  shoes.' 

'  Surely,'  said  Victoria,  *  you're  not  going  to  leave 
the  Service?  '  Her  intonation  implied  that  she  was 
urging  him  not  to  commit  suicide.  Some  women 
must  pass  twice  under  the  yoke. 

'  Fed  up.  Simply  fed  up  with  it.  Suppose  I  do 
waste  another  twenty  years  in  India  or  Singapore 
or  Horg  Kong,  how  much  forrarder  am  I  ?  They'll 
retire  me  as  a  colonel  or  courtesy  general  and  dump 
me  into  an  England  which  doesn't  care  a  hang  about 
me  with  the  remains  of  malaria,  no  digestion  and  no 
temper.  I'll  then  while  away  my  time  watching  the 
busses  pass  by  from  one  of  the  windows  of  the  Rag 
and  give  my  daily  opinion  of  the  doings  of  Simla 
and  the  National  Congress  to  men  who  will  only 
listen  to  me  so  long  as  I  stand  them  a  whisky  and 
soda.' 

*It  isn't  alluring,'  said  Victoria,  'but  it  may  not 


14  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

be  as  bad  as  that.  You  can  do  marvels  in  India. 
My  husband  used  to  say  that  a  man  could  hope  for 
anything  there.' 

Cairns  suppressed  the  obvious  retort  that  Fulton's 
ideals  did  not  seem  to  have  materialised. 

*  No,'  he  said,  '  I'm  not  ambitious.  India's  steam 
rollered  all  that.  When  I've  done  with  my  job  at 
Perim,  which  won't  be  much  more  than  a  couple  of 
months,  I'm  going  home.  Don't  know  that  I'll  do 
anything  in  particular.  Farm  a  bit,  perhaps,  or  have 
some  chambers  somewhere  near  St  James'  and  dabble 
in  balloons  or  motors.  Some  shooting  too.  All  that 
sort  of  thing.' 

'  Perhaps  you  are  right,'  said  Victoria  after  a 
pause.  '  I  suppose  it's  as  well  to  do  what  one  likes. 
Shall  we  join  the  others? ' 


CHAPTER  m 

Tjfe  on  a  trooper  is  not  eventful.  Victoria  was  not 
so  deeply  absorbed  in  her  mourning  or  in  the  pallid 
literature  borrowed  from  Molly  as  not  to  notice  it. 
Though  she  was  not  what  is  termed  serious,  the 
perpetual  quoits  on  the  upper  deck  in  company  with 
Alastair  and  his  conversation  limited  by  smiles,  and 
with  Mr  Parker  and  his  conversation  limited  by 
uneasiness  palled  about  the  second  game.  Bobby 
too  was  a  cypher.  It  was  his  fate  to  be  known  as 
'  Bobby,'  a  quantity  of  no  importance.  He  belonged 
to  the  modern  school  of  squires  of  dames,  ever  ready 
to  fetch  a  handkerchief,  to  fish  when  he  inwardly 
wanted  to  sleep  in  a  deck  chair  or  to  talk  when  he 
had  a  headache.  Such  men  have  their  value  as  tame 
cats  and  Victoria  did  not  avoid  his  cheery  neigh- 
bourhood. But  he  was  summed  up  in  the  small  fact 
which  she  recalled  with  gentle  amusement  a  long 
time  after  :  she  had  never  known  his  name.  For 
her,  as  for  the  ship's  company,  he  was  'Bobby,' 
merely  Bobby. 

The  female  section  too  could  detain  none  but  cats 
and  hens,  as  Victoria  put  it.  She  had  moved  too 
long  like  a  tiny  satellite  in  the  orbit  of  Mrs  Colonel 
So-and-So  to  return  to  the  little  group  which 
slumbered  all  day  by  the  funnel  dreaming  aloud  the 
petty  happenings  of  Bombay.  The  heavy  rains  at 
Chandraga,  the  simply  awful  things  that  had  been  said 
about  an  A.D.C.  and  Mrs  Bryan,  and  the  scandalous 
way   in   which   a   Babu  had   been   made    a    judge, 


i6  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

all  ttis  filled  her  with  an  extraordinary  weariness. 
She  felt,  in  the  presence  of  these  remains  of  her  daily- 
life,  as  she  would  when  confronted  for  the  third  time 
with  the  cold  leg  of  mutton. 

True  there  was  Cairns,  a  man  right  enough  and 
jovial  in  spite  of  his  cynical  assumption  that  nothing 
was  worth  anything.  He  could  produce  passing  fair 
aphorisms,  throw  doubts  on  the  value  of  success  and 
happiness.  There  was  nothing,  however,  to  hold 
on  to.  Victoria  had  not  found  in  him  a  teacher  or 
a  helper.  He  was  merely  destructive  of  thought  and 
epicurean  in  taste.  Convinced  that  wine,  woman 
and  song  were  quite  valueless  things,  he  nevertheless 
knew  the  best  Riidesheimer  and  had  an  eye  for  the 
droop  of  Victoria's  shoulders. 

Cairns  obviously  liked  Victoria.  He  did  not  shun 
his  fellow  passengers,  for  he  considered  that  the 
dullest  people  are  the  most  interesting,  yet  she  could 
not  help  noticing  from  time  to  time  that  his  eyes 
followed  her  round.  He  was  a  good  big  man  and 
she  knew  that  his  thick  hand,  a  little  swollen  and 
sunburnt  would  be  a  good  thing  to  touch.  But  there 
was  in  him  none  of  that  subtle  magnetism  that  grasps 
and  holds.  He  was  coarse,  perhaps  a  little  vulgar  at 
heart. 

Thus  Victoria  had  roamed  aimlessly  over  the  ship, 
visiting  even  the  bows  where,  everlastingly,  a  lascar 
seemed  to  brood  in  fixed  attitudes  as  a  Budh  dreaming 
of  Nirvana.  She  often  wandered  in  the  troop-deck 
filled  with  the  womankind  and  children  of  the 
non-coms.  Without  disliking  children  she  could  find 
no  attraction  in  these  poor  little  faded  things  born  to 
be  scorched  by  the  Indian  sun.  The  women  too, 
mostly  yellow  and  faded,  always  recalled  to  her,  so 
languid  and  tired  were  they,  commonplace  flowers, 
marigolds,  drooping  on  their  stems.  Besides,  the 
society  of  the  upper  deck  found  a  replica  on  the 
troop  deck,  where  it  was  occasionally  a  little  shriller. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  17 

There  too,  she  could  catch  snatches  which  told  of 
the  heavy  rains  of  Chandraga,  the  goings  on  of  Lance 
Corporal  Maccaskie's  wife  and  the  disgrace  of  giving 
Babu  clerks  more  than  fifty  rupees  a  month. 

Perpetually  the  Indian  ocean  shimmered  by,  calm 
as  the  opaque  eye  of  a  shark,  breaking  at  times  into 
immense  rollers  that  swelled  hardly  more  than  a 
woman's  breast.     And  the  days  passed  on. 

They  were  nearing  Aden,  though  nothing  on  the 
mauve  horizon  told  of  the  outpost  where  the  filth  of 
the  East  begins  to  overwhelm  the  ugliness  of  the 
West.  Victoria  and  Cairns  were  leaning  on  the 
starboard  bulwark.  She  was  looking  vacuously  into 
the  greying  sky,  conscious  that  Cairns  was  watching 
her.  She  felt  with  extraordinary  clearness  that  he 
was  gazing  as  if  spell-boimd  at  the  soft  and  regular 
rise  and  fall  of  her  skin  towards  the  coarse  black 
openwork  of  her  bodice.  Far  away  in  the  twilight 
was  sometliing  long  and  black,  hardly  more  than  a 
line  vanishing  towards  the  north. 

'Araby,'  said  Cairns. 

Victoria  looked  more  intently.  Far  away,  half 
veiled  by  the  mists  of  night,  unlit  by  the  evening 
star,  lay  the  coast.  Araby,  the  land  of  manna  and 
milk — of  black-eyed  women — of  horses  that  champ 
strange  bits.  Here  and  there  a  blackened  rock 
sprang  up  from  the  waste  of  sand  and  scrub.  Its 
utter  desolation  awakened  a  sympathetic  chord.  It 
was  lonely,  as  she  was  lonely.  As  the  night  swiftly 
rushed  into  the  heavens,  she  let  her  arm  rest  against 
that  of  Cairns.  Then  his  hand  closed  over  hers.  It 
was  warm  and  hard ;  something  like  a  pale  light  of 
companionship  struggled  through  the  solitude  of  her 
soul. 

They  stood  cold  and  silent  while  the  night  swallowed 
up  the  coast  and  all  save  here  and  there  the  foam  tip 
of  a  wave.  The  man  had  put  his  arm  round  her  and 
pressed  her  to  him.     She  did  not  resist.     The  soft 


i8  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

wind  playing  in  her  hair  carried  a  straying  lock  into 
his  eyes,  half  blinding  him  and  making  him  catch  his 
breath,  so  redolent  was  it,  not  with  the  scent  of  flowers, 
but  of  life,  vigorous  and  rich  in  its  thousand  saps. 
He  drew  her  closer  to  him  and  pressed  his  lips  on  her 
neck.     Victoria  did  not  resist. 

From  the  forepeak  swathed  in  darkness,  came  the 
faint  unearthly  echoes  of  the  stokers'  song.  There 
were  no  fourths  ;  the  dominant  and  the  subdominant 
were  absent.  Strangely  attuned  to  the  western  ear, 
the  sounds  sometimes  boomed,  sometimes  fell  to  a 
whisper.  The  chant  rose  like  incense  into  tlie  heavens, 
celebrating  Durga,  protector  of  the  ^lotherland, 
Lakshmi,  bowered  in  the  flower  that  in  the  water 
grows.  Cairns  had  drawn  Victoria  close  against  him. 
He  was  stirred  and  shaken  as  never  before.  All 
conspired  against  him,  the  night,  the  fancied  scents 
of  Araby,  the  unresisting  woman  in  his  arms  who 
yielded  him  her  lips  with  the  passivity  of  weariness. 
They  did  not  think  as  they  kissed,  whether  laying  the 
foundation  of  regret  or  snatching  from  the  fleeting 
hour  a  moment  of  thoughtless  joy.  Again  a  brass 
drum  boomed  out  beyond  them,  softly  as  if  touched 
by  velvet  hands.  It  carried  the  buzzing  of  bees,  the 
calls  of  corncrakes,  in  every  tone  the  rich  scents  of 
the  jungle,  where  undergrowth  rots  in  black  water — 
of  perfumes  that  burn  before  the  gods.  Then  the 
night  wind  arose  and  swept  away  the  crooning  voices. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Victoria  stepped  out  on  to  the  platform  witli  a  heait 
that  bounded  and  yet  shrank.  Not  even  the  first 
faint  coming  of  the  coastline  had  given  her  the  almost 
physical  shock  that  she  experienced  on  this  bare 
platform.  Waterloo  station  lay  around  her  in  a  pall 
of  faint  yellow  mist  that  gripped  and  wrenched  at 
her  throat.  Through  the  fog  a  thousand  ungainly 
shapes  of  stairs  and  signals  thrust  themselves,  some 
crude  in  their  near  blackness,  others  fainter  in  the 
distance.  It  might  have  been  a  dream  scene  but  for 
the  uproar  that  rose  around  her  from  the  rumble  of 
London,  the  voices  of  a  great  crowd.  Yet  all  this 
violence  of  life,  the  darkness,  the  surge  of  men  and 
women,  aU  this  told  her  that  she  was  once  more  in 
the  midst  of  things. 

She  found  her  belongings  mechanically,  fumblingly. 
She  did  not  realise  until  then  the  bitterness  that  drove 
its  iron  into  her  soul.  Already,  when  the  troopship 
had  entered  the  Channel  she  had  felt  a  cruel  pang 
when  she  realised  that  she  must  expect  nothing  and 
that  nobody  would  greet  her.  She  had  fled  from  the 
circle  near  the  funnel  when  the  talk  began  to  turn 
round  London  and  waiting  sisters  and  fathers,  round 
the  Lord  Mayor's  show,  the  play,  the  old  fashioned 
Christmas.  Now,  as  she  struggled  through  the  crowd 
that  cried  out  and  laughed  excitedly  and  kissed,  she 
knew  her  isolation  was  complete.  There  was  nobody 
to  meet  her.  The  fog  made  her  eyes  smart,  so  they 
filled  readily  with  tears. 

»9 


90  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

As  she  sat  in  the  cab,  however,  and  there  flashed 
by  her  like  beacons  the  lights  of  the  stalls  in  the 
Waterloo  Road,  the  black  and  greasy  pavement  sown 
with  orange  peel,  she  felt  her  heart  beating  fmiously 
with  the  excitement  of  home  coming.  She  passed 
the  Thames  flowing  silently,  swathed  in  its  shroud  of 
mist.  Then  the  blackness  of  St  James's  Park  through 
which  her  cab  crawled  timidly  as  if  it  feared  things 
that  might  lurk  unknown  in  the  fogbound  thickets. 

It  was  still  in  a  state  of  feverish  dreaming  that 
Victoria  entered  her  room  at  Curran's  Private  Hotel, 
otherwise  known  by  a  humble  number  in  Seymour 
Street.  '  Curran's '  is  much  in  favour  among  Anglo- 
Indians,  as  it  is  both  central  and  cheap.  It  has 
everything  that  distinguishes  the  English  hotel  which 
has  grown  from  a  boarding-house  into  a  superior 
establishment  where  you  may  stay  at  so  much  a  day. 
The  successful  owner  had  bought  up  one  after  the 
other  three  contiguous  houses  and  had  connected  them 
by  means  of  a  conservatory  where  there  lived,  among 
much  pampas  grass,  small  ferns  in  pots  shrouded  in 
pea-green  paper  and  sickly  plants  to  which  no  name 
could  be  attached  as  they  mostly  suggested  stewed 
lettuce.  It  was  impossible  to  walk  in  a  straight  line 
from  one  end  of  the  coalition  of  buildings  to  the  other 
without  climbing  and  descending  steps  every  one  of 
whioh  proclaimed  the  fact  that  the  leases  of  the  houses 
would  soon  fall  in.  From  the  three  kitchens  ascended 
three  smells  of  mutton.  The  three  halls  were  strewn 
with  bicycles,  gun  cases  in  their  last  phase,  sticks 
decrepit  or  dandified.  The  three  hat  racks,  all  early 
Victorian  in  their  lines,  bore  a  motley  cargo.  Dusty 
bowlers  hustled  it  with  heather  coloured  caps  and 
top  hats ;  one  even  bore  a  pith  helmet  and  a  clerical 
atrocity. 

Queer  as  Curran's  is,  it  is  comfortable  enough. 
Victoria  looked  round  her  room,  tiny  in  length  and 
breadth,  high  however  with  all  the  dignity  that  befits 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  21 

an  odd  corner  left  over  by  tlie  Victorian  builder.  It 
was  distinguished  by  its  simplicity,  for  the  walls  bore 
nothing  whatever  beyond  a  restrained  papering  of 
brownish  roses.  A  small  black  and  gold  bed,  a 
wardrobe  with  a  white  handle,  a  washing  stand  with 
a  marble  top  took  up  all  the  space  left  by  the  large 
tin  trunk  which  contained  most  of  Victoria's  worldly 
goods.  So  this,  thought  Victoria,  is  the  beginning. 
She  pulled  aside  the  curtain.  Before  her  lay  Seymour 
Street,  where  alone  an  eye  of  light  shone  faintly  fi'om 
the  nearest  lamp  post.  Through  the  fog  came  the 
warning  noise  of  a  lorry  picking  its  way.  It  was 
cold,  cold,  all  this,  and  lonely  like  an  island. 

Her  meditations  were  disturbed  by  the  maid  who 
brought  her  hot  water. 

'  My  name  is  Carlotta,'  said  the  girl  complacently 
depositing  the  can  upon  the  marble  topped  washstand. 

*  Yes  ? '  said  Victoria.     *  You  are  a  foreigner  ?  ' 

*  Yes.     I  am  Italian.     It  is  foggy,'  replied  the  girl. 
Victoria  sighed.     It  was  kind  of  the  girl  to  make 

her  feel  at  home,  to  smile  at  her  with  those  flashing 
teeth  so  well  set  in  her  ugly  little  brown  face.  She 
went  to  the  washstand  and  cried  out  in  horror  at  her 
dirt  and  fog  begrimed  face,  rimmed  at  the  eyes, 
furrowed  on  the  left  b}'-  the  course  of  that  tear  shed 
at  Waterloo. 

'Tell  them  downstairs  I  shan't  be  ready  for  half 
an  hour,'  she  said ;  '  it'U  take  me  about  a  week  to  get 
quite  clean,  I  should  say.' 

Carlotta  bared  her  white  teeth  again  and  withdrew 
gently  as  a  cat,  while  Victoria  courageously  drenched 
her  face  and  neck.  The  scents  of  England,  already 
conjured  up  by  the  fog  and  the  mutton,  rose  at  her 
still  more  vividly  from  the  warm  water  which 
inevitably  exhales  the  traditional  perfume  of  hot 
painted  can. 

Her  dinner  was  a  small  affair  but  delightftJ.  It 
was  good  to  eat  and  drink  once  more  things  to  which 


23  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

elie  liad  been  accustomed  for  the  first  twenty  j'^ears 
of  her  life.  Her  depression  had  vanished ;  she  was 
merely  hungry,  and,  like  the  healthy  young  animal 
she  was,  longing  for  a  rare  cut  of  roast  beef,  accom- 
panied by  the  good  old  English  potatoes  boiled  down 
to  the  consistency  of  flour  and  the  flavour  of  nothing. 
Her  companions  were  so  normal  that  she  could  not 
help  wondering,  when  her  first  hunger  was  sated  and 
she  was  confronted  with  the  apple  tart  of  her  fathers, 
whether  she  was  not  in  the  unchanging  old  board 
residence  in  Fulham  where  her  mother  had  stayed 
with  her  whenever  she  came  up  to  town,  excited  and 
conscious  of  being  on  the  spree. 

Two  spinsters  of  no  age  discussed  the  fog.  Both 
were  immaculate  and  sat  rigidly  in  correct  attitudes 
facing  their  plates.  Both  talked  quickly  and  con- 
tinuously in  soft  but  high  tones.  They  passed  one 
another  the  salt  with  the  courtesy  of  abbes  taking 
pinches  of  snuff.  A  young  man  from  the  Midlands 
explained  to  the  owner  of  the  clerical  hat  that  under 
certain  circumstances  his  food  would  cost  him  more. 
Near  by  a  heavy  man  solemnly  and  steadily  ate, 
wiping  at  times  from  his  beard  drops  of  gravy  and 
of  sauce,  whilst  his  faded  wife  nibbled  disconsolately 
tiny  scraps  of  crust.  These  she  daintily  buttered, 
■while  her  four  lanky  girls  nudged  and  whispered. 

Victoria  did  not  stay  in  the  conservatory  after  the 
important  meal.  As  she  passed  through  it,  a  mist 
of  weariness  gathering  before  her  eyes,  she  had  a 
vision  of  half  a  dozen  men  sleeping  in  cane  chairs, 
or  studying  pink  or  white  evening  papers.  The 
young  man  from  the  Midlands  had  captured  another 
victim  and  was  once  more  explaining  that  undes 
certain  circumstances  his  food  would  cost  him  more. 

Victoria  seemed  to  have  reached  the  limits  of 
physical  endurance.  She  fumbled  as  she  divested 
herself  of  her  clothes;  she  could  not  even  collect 
enough  energy  to  wash.     All  the  room  seeined  filled 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  23 

with  haze.  Her  tongue  clove  to  her  palate.  Little 
tingles  in  her  eyelids  crushed  them  together  over 
her  pupils.  She  stumbled  into  her  bed,  mechanically- 
switching  ofE  the  light  by  her  bedside.  In  the  very 
act  her  arm  lost  its  energy  and  she  sank  into  a  dream- 
less sleep. 

Next  morning  she  breakfasted  with  good  appetite. 
The  fog  had  almost  entirely  lifted  and  sunshine  soft 
as  silver  was  filtering  through  the  windows  into  the 
little  dining-room.  Its  mahoganous  ugliness  was 
almost  warmed  into  charm.  The  sideboard  shone 
dully  through  its  covering  of  coarse  net.  Even  the 
stacked  cruets  remembered  the  days  when  they 
cunningly  blazed  in  a  shop  window.  A  pleasurable 
feeling  of  excitement  ran  through  Victoria's  body, 
for  she  was  going  to  discover  London,  to  have 
adventures.  As  she  closed  the  door  behind  her 
with  a  definite  little  slam  she  felt  like  a  buccaneer. 

Buccaneering  in  the  Edgware  Road,  even  when  it 
is  bathed  in  the  morning  sun,  soon  falls  flat  in 
November.  It  came  upon  Victoria  rather  as  a  shock 
that  her  Indian  clothing  was  rather  thin.  As  her 
flying  visits  to  town  had  only  left  in  her  mind  a 
very  hazy  picture  of  Regent  Street  it  was  quite  uncon- 
sciously that  she  entered  the  emporium  opposite.  A 
frigid  young  lady  sacrificed  for  her  benefit  an  abomin- 
able vicuna  coat  which,  she  said,  fitted  Victoria  like 
a  glove.  Victoria  paid  the  twenty  seven  and  six 
with  an  admirable  feeling  of  recklessness  and  left 
the  shop  reflecting  that  she  looked  the  complete 
charwoman. 

She  turned  into  Hyde  Park,  where  the  gentle  wind 
was  sorrowfully  driving  the  brown  and  broken  leaves 
along  the  rough  gravel.  The  thin  tracery  of  the 
trees  imaged  itself  on  the  road  like  a  giant  cobweb. 
Victoria  looked  for  a  moment  towards  the  south 
where  the  massive  buildings  rise,  towards  the  east 
where  a  cathedral  thrusts  into  the  sky  a  tower  that 


24  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

suspiciously  recalls  waterworks.  She  drank  in  the 
cold  air  with  a  gusto  that  can  be  understood  by  none 
save  those  wlio  have  learned  to  live  in  the  floating 
moisture  of  the  plains.  She  felt  young  and,  in  the 
sunshine,  with  her  cheeks  gaining  colour  as  the  wind 
whipped  them,  she  looked  in  her  long  black  coat  and 
broad  brimmed  straw  hat,  like  a  quakeress  in  love. 

As  she  walked  down  towards  the  Achilles  statue 
the  early  morning  panorama  of  London  unfolded 
itself  before  her  un-understanding  eyes.  Girls  hurried 
by  with  their  satchels  towards  the  typewriting  rooms 
of  the  west ;  they  stole  a  look  at  Victoria's  face  but 
quickly  turned  away  from  her  clothes.  Now  and  then 
spruce  young  clerks  walking  to  the  Tube  slackened 
their  pace  to  look  twice  into  her  grey  eyes ;  one  or 
two  looked  back,  not  so  much  in  the  hope  of  an 
adventure,  for  time  could  not  be  snatched  for  Venus 
herself  on  the  way  to  the  office,  as  to  see  whether 
they  could  carry  away  with  them  the  flattery  of  having 
been  noticed. 

In  a  sense  that  first  day  in  London  was  for  Victoria 
a  day  of  revelations.  Having  despatched  a  telegram 
to  her  brother  to  announce  her  arrival  she  felt  that 
the  day  was  hers.  Ted  had  not  troubled  to  meet  her 
either  at  Southampton  or  Waterloo  :  it  was  not  likely 
that  he  had  followed  the  sightings  of  her  ship.  The 
next  day  being  a  Saturday,  however,  he  would 
probably  come  up  from  the  Bedfordshire  school 
where  he  proffered  Latin  to  an  ungrateful 
generation. 

Victoria's  excursions  to  London  had  been  so  few 
that  she  had  but  the  faintest  idea  of  where  she  was  to 
go.  Knowing,  however,  that  one  cannot  lose  oneself 
in  London,  she  walked  aimlessly  towards  the  east.  It 
was  a  voyage  of  discovery.  Piccadilly,  bathed  in  the 
pale  sun,  revealed  itself  as  a  land  where  luxury  flows 
like  rivers  of  milk.  Victoria,  being  a  true  woman, 
could  not  pass  a  shop.     Thus  her  progress  was  slow, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  25 

so  slow  tliat  when  she  found  herself  between  the  lions 
of  Trafalgar  Square  she  began  to  realise  that  she 
wanted  her  lunch. 

The  problem  of  food  is  cruel  for  all  women  who 
desire  more  than  a  bun.  They  risk  either  inattention 
or  over  attention,  and  if  they  follow  other  women,  they 
almost  invariably  discover  the  cheap  and  bad. 
Victoria  hesitated  for  a  moment  on  the  steps  of  an 
oyster  shop,  as  nervous  in  the  presence  of  her  first 
plunge  into  freedom  as  a  novice  at  the  side  door  of  a 
pawnbroker.  A  man  passed  by  her  into  the  oyster 
shop,  smoking  a  pipe.  She  felt  she  would  never  dare 
to  sit  in  a  room  where  strange  men  smoked  pipes. 
Thus  she  stood  for  a  moment  forlorn  on  the  pavement, 
until  a  memory  of  the  only  decent  grill  in  town, 
according  to  Bobby,  passed  through  her  mind. 

A  policeman  sent  her  by  bus  to  the  New  Gaiety, 
patronised  by  Bobby  and  his  cronies.  As  Victoria 
went  down  the  interminable  underground  staircase, 
and  especially  as  she  entered  the  enormous  room 
where  paper,  carpets,  and  plate  always  seem  new,  her 
courage  almost  failed  her.  Indeed  she  looked  round 
anxiously,  half  hoping  that  the  anonymous  Bobby 
might  be  revisiting  his  old  haunts.  But  she  was 
quite  alone,  and  it  was  only  by  reminding  herself  that 
she  must  always  be  alone  at  meals  now  that  she 
coerced  herself  into  sitting  down.  She  got  through 
her  meal  with  expedition.  She  felt  frightfully  small ; 
the  waiters  were  painfully  courteous ;  a  man  laid 
aside  his  orange  coloured  newspaper,  and  embarrassed 
her  with  frequent  side  glances.  She  braced  herself 
up  however.  'I  am  training,'  was  her  uppermost 
thought.  She  then  wondered  whether  she  ought  to 
have  come  to  the  New  Gaiety  at  all.  Fortunately  it 
was  only  at  the  very  end  of  her  lunch  that  Victoria 
realised  she  was  the  only  woman  sitting  alone.  After 
this  discovery  her  nerve  failed  her.  She  got  up 
hurriedly,  and,  in  her  confusion,  omitted  to  tip  the 


a6  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

waiter.  At  the  desk  tlie  last  stone  was  heaped  on  the 
cairn  of  her  discomfiture  when  the  cashier  politely 
returned  to  her  a  quarter  rupee  which  she  had  given 
her  thinking  it  was  a  sixpence. 

With  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  Victoria  resumed  her 
walk  through  London.  She  was  a  little  tired  already 
but  she  could  think  of  nothing  to  do,  nowhere  to  go 
to.  She  did  not  want  to  return  to  Curran's  to  sit  in 
her  box-like  room,  or  to  look  at  the  two  spinsters 
availing  themselves  of  their  holiday  in  town  to  play 
patience  in  the  conservatory. 

All  the  afternoon,  therefore,  Victoria  saw  the  sights. 
Covent  Garden  repelled  her  by  the  massiveness  of  its 
food  suggestion,  and  especially  by  the  choking  dirt  of 
its  lanes.  After  Covent  Garden,  Savoy  court  yard 
and  its  announcements  of  intellectual  plays  by 
unknown  women.  Then  once  more,  drawn  by  its 
spaciousness  guessed  at  through  Spring  Gardens, 
Victoria  walked  into  Saint  James's  Park.  She  rested 
awhile  upon  a  seat,  watching  the  waterfowl  strut  and 
plume  themselves,  the  pelicans  flounder  lieavily  in 
the  mud.  She  was  tired.  The  sun  was  setting  early. 
The  magic  slowly  faded  from  London  ;  Buckingham 
Palace  lost  the  fictitious  grace  that  it  has  when 
set  in  a  blue  sky.  Victoria  shivered  a  little.  She 
felt  tired.  She  did  not  know  where  to  go.  She  was 
alone.  On  the  seat  nearest  to  hers  two  lovers  sat 
together,  hand  in  hand.  The  man's  face  was  almost 
hidden  by  his  cap  and  by  the  blue  puffs  of  his  pipe ; 
the  girl's  was  averted  towards  the  ground  where, 
with  the  ferule  of  her  umbrella,  she  lazily  drev/  signs. 
There  was  no  bitterness  in  this  sight  for  Victoria. 
Her  romance  had  come  and  gone  so  long  ago  that  she 
looked  quite  casually  at  these  wanderers  in  Arcadia. 
She  only  knew  that  she  was  alone  and  cold. 

Victoria  got  up  and  walked  out  of  the  park.  It  was 
darkening,  and  little  by  little  the  lights  of  London 
were  springing  into  life.     By  dint  of  many  question- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  27 

ings  she  managed  to  regain  Oxford  Street,  that  spinal 
column  of  London  without  which  the  stranger  would 
be  lost.  Then  her  course  was  easy,  and  it  was  with 
a  peculiar  feeling  of  luxuriousness  that  she  resigned 
herself  to  the  motor  bus  that  jolted  and  shook  her 
tired  body  until  she  reached  the  Arch.  More  slowly, 
and  with  diminished  optimism,  she  found  her  way  up 
Edgware  Road,  where  night  was  now  falling.  The 
emporium  was  dazzling  with  lights.  Alone  the 
public  house  rivalled  it  and  thrust  its  glare  through 
the  settling  mist.  Victoria  closed  the  door  of 
Curran's.  At  once  she  re-entered  its  atmosphere  ; 
into  the  warm  air  rose  the  three  smells  of  three  legs 
of  mutton. 


CHAPTER  V 

*  Mr  Wren,  ma'am.' 

Victoria  turned  quickly  to  Carlotta.  Tlie  girl's 
face  was  obtrusively  demure.  Some  years  at  Curran's 
had  not  dulled  in  her  the  interest  that  any  woman 
subtly  feels  in  the  meeting  of  the  sexes. 

'  Ask  him  to  come  in  here,  Carlotta,'  said  Victoria. 

*  We  shan't  be  disturbed,  shall  we?  ' 

*  Oh  no !  ma'am,'  said  Carlotta,  with  increasing 
demureness.  *  There  is  nobody,  nobody.  I  will 
show  the  young  gentleman  in.' 

Victoria  walked  to  the  looking-glass  which  shyly 
peeped  out  from  the  back  of  the  monumental  side- 
board. She  re-arranged  her  hair  and  hurriedly 
flicked  some  dust  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes.  All 
this  for  Edward,  but  she  had  not  seen  him  for  three 
years.  As  she  turned  round  she  was  confronted  by 
her  brother  who  had  gently  stolen  into  the  dining- 
room.  Edward's  every  movement  was  unobtrusive. 
He  put  one  arm  round  her  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

'  How  are  you,  Victoria?'  he  said,  looking  her  in 
the  eyes. 

'  Oh,  I'm  alright,  Ted.  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you.' 
She  was  genuinely  glad ;  it  was  so  good  to  have 
belongings  once  again. 

*  Did  you  have  a  good  passage  ?  '  asked  Edward. 

*  Pretty  good  until  we  got  to  Ushant  and  then  it 
did  blow.     I  was  glad  to  get  home.' 

'I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,'  said  Edward,  'very 
glad.'     His  eyes  fixed  on  the  sideboard  as  if  he  were 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  39 

mesmerised  by  the  cruets.  Victoria  looked  at  him 
critically.  Tkree  years  had  not  made  on  him  the 
smallest  impression.  He  was  at  twenty-eight  Avhat 
he  had  been  at  twenty-five  or  for  the  matter  of  that 
at  eighteen.  He  was  a  tall  slim  figure  with  narrow 
pointed  shoulders  and  a  slightly  bowed  back.  His 
face  was  pale  without  being  unhealthy.  There  was 
nothing  in  his  countenance  to  arouse  any  particular 
interest,  for  he  had  those  average  features  that 
commit  no  man  either  to  coarseness  or  to  intellectu- 
ality. He  showed  no  trace  of  the  massiveness  of  his 
sister's  chin ;  his  mouth  too  was  looser  and  hung  a 
little  open.  Alone  his  eyes,  richly  grey,  recalled  his 
relationship.  Straggly  fair  hair  fell  across  the  left 
side  of  his  forehead.  He  peered  through  silver 
rimmed  spectacles  as  he  nervously  worried  his  watch 
chain  with  both  hands.  Every  movement  exposed 
the  sharpness  of  his  knees  through  his  worn 
trousers. 

'  Ted,'  said  Victoria,  breaking  in  upon  the  silence, 
*  it  was  kind  of  you  to  come  up  at  once.' 

*  Of  course  I'd  come  up  at  once.  I  couldn't  leave 
yon  here  alone.  It  must  be  a  big  change  after  the 
sunshine.' 

*  Yes,'  said  Victoria  slowly,  '  it  is  a  big  change. 
Not  only  the  sunshine.     Other  things,  you  know.' 

Edward's  hands  played  still  more  nervously  with 
his  watch  chain.  He  had  not  heard  much  of  the 
manner  of  Fulton's  death.  Victoria's  serious  face 
encouraged  him  to  believe  that  she  might  harrow 
him  with  details,  weep  even.  He  feared  any  ex- 
pression of  feeling,  not  because  he  was  hard  but 
because  it  was  so  difficult  to  know  what  to  say.  He 
was  neither  hard  nor  soft ;  he  was  a  schoolmaster 
and  could  deal  readily  enough  with  the  pangs  of 
Andromeda  but  what  should  he  say  to  a  live  woman, 
his  sister  too  ? 


30  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  I  understand — I — you  see,  it's  quite  awful  about 
Dick — '  he  stopped,  lost,  groping  for  the  proper 
sentiment. 

'  Ted,'  said  Victoria,  '  don't  condole  with  me.  I 
don't  want  to  be  unkind — if  you  knew  everj'^thing — 
But  there,  I'd  rather  not  tell  you ;  poor  Dicky's 
dead  and  I  suppose  it's  wrong,  but  I  can't  be 
sorry.' 

Edward  looked  at  her  with  some  disapproval.  The 
marriage  had  not  been  a  success,  he  knew  that  much, 
but  she  ought  not  to  speak  like  that.  He  felt  he 
ought  to  reprove  her,  but  the  difficulty  of  finding 
words  stopped  him. 

*  Have  you  made  any  plans  ? '  he  asked  in  his 
embarrassment,  thus  blundering  into  the  subject  he 
had  intended  to  lead  up  to  with  infinite  tact. 

'Plans?'  said  Victoria.  'Well,  not  exactly.  Of 
course  I  shall  have  to  work;  I  thought  you  might 
help  me  perhaps.' 

Edward  looked  at  her  again  uneasily.  She  had 
sat  down  in  an  armchair  by  the  side  of  the  fire  with 
her  back  to  the  light.  In  the  penumbra  her  eyes 
came  out  like  dark  pools.  A  curl  rippled  over  one 
of  her  ears.  She  looked  so  self-possessed  that  his 
embarrassment  increased. 

'  Will  you  have  to  work  ? '  he  asked.  The  idea  of 
his  sister  working  filled  him  with  vague  annoyance. 

*I  don't  quite  see  how  I  can  help  it,'  said  Victoria 
smiling.  'You  see,  I've  got  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing.  When  I've  spent  the  thirty  pounds  or  so 
I've  got,  I  must  either  earn  my  own  living  or  go  into 
the  workhouse.'  She  spoke  lightly,  but  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  peculiar  sinking. 

'  I  thought  you  might  come  back  with  me,'  said 
Edward,  '  .  .  .  and  stay  with  me  a  little  .  .  .  and 
look  round.' 

'  Ted,  it's  awfully  kind  of  you,  but  I'm  not  going  to 
let  you  saddle  yourself  with  me.  T  can't  be  your  house- 
keeper ;  oil  I  it  would  never  do.     And  don't  you  think 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  31 

I  am  more  likely  to  get  something  to  do  here  than 
down  in  Bedfordshire  ? ' 

'  I  do  want  you  to  come  back  with  me,'  said  Edward 
hesitatingly,  '  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  be  alone 
here.  And  perhaps  I  could  find  you  something  in  a 
family  at  Cray  or  thereabouts.     I  could  ask  the  vicar.' 

Victoria  shuddered.  It  had  never  struck  her  that 
employment  might  be  difficult  to  find  or  uncongenial 
when  one  found  it.  The  words  '  vicar '  and  '  Cray ' 
suggested  something  like  domestic  service  without 
its  rights,  gentility  without  its  privileges. 

'Ted,'  she  said  gravely,  'you're  awfully  good  to 
me,  but  I'd  rather  stay  here.  I'm  sure  I  could  find 
something  to  do.'  Edward's  thoughts  naturally  came 
back  to  his  own  profession, 

'I'll  ask  the  Head,'  he  said  with  the  first  flash  of 
animation  he  had  shown  since  he  entered  the  room. 
To  ask  the  Head  was  to  go  to  the  source  of  all  know- 
ledge. '  Perhaps  he  knows  a  school.  Of  course 
your  French  is  pretty  good,  isn't  it  ? ' 

'Ted,  Ted,  you  do  forget  things,'  said  Victoria, 
laughing.  '  Don't  you  remember  the  mater  insisting 
on  my  taking  German  because  so  few  girls  did? 
Why,  it  was  the  only  original  thing  she  ever  did  in 
her  life,  poor  dear ! ' 

'But  nobody  wants  German,  for  girls  that  is,' 
replied  Edward  miserably. 

'Very  well  then,'  said  Victoria,  'I  won't  teach; 
that's  all.     I  must  do  something  else.' 

Edward  walked  up  and  down  nervously,  pushing 
back  his  thin  fair  hair  with  one  hand,  and  with  the 
other  nervously  tugging  at  his  watch  chain. 

'  Don't  worry  yourseK,  Ted,'  said  Victoria.  *  Some- 
thing will  turn  up.  Besides  there's  no  hurry.  Why, 
I  can  live  two  or  three  months  on  my  money, 
can't  I?' 

'  I  suppose  you  can,'  said  Edward  gloomily, '  but 
what  will  you  do  afterwards  ? ' 


S2  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  Earn,  some  more,'  said  Victoria.  *  Now  Ted,  you 
haven't  seen  me  for  three  years.  Don't  let  us  worry. 
Think  things  over  when  you  get  back  to  Cray  and 
write  to  me.  You  won't  go  back  until  to-morrow, 
will  you  ? ' 

'  I'm  sorry,'  said  Edward, '  but  I  didn't  think  you'd 
be  back  this  week.  I  shall  be  in  charge  to-morrow. 
Why  don't  you  come  down  ? ' 

'Ted,  Ted,  how  can  you  suggest  that  I  should 
spend  my  poor  little  fortune  in  railway  fares  !  Well, 
if  you  can't  stay,  you  can't.  But  I'll  tell  you  what 
you  can  do.  I  can't  go  on  paying  two  and  a  half 
guineas  a  week  here  ;  I  must  get  some  rooms.  You 
lived  here  when  you  taught  at  that  school  in  the  city, 
didn't  you  ?  Well  then,  you  must  know  all  about  it : 
we'll  go  house-hunting.' 

Edward  looked  at  her  dubiously.  He  disliked  the 
idea  of  Victoria  in  rooms  almost  as  much  as  Victoria  at 
CuiTan's.  It  offended  some  vague  notions  of  propriety . 
However  her  suggestion  would  give  him  time  to  think. 
Perhaps  she  was  right. 

'Of  course,  I'll  be  glad  to  help,'  he  said,  'I  don't 
know  much  about  it ;  I  used  to  live  in  Gower  Street.' 
A  faint  flush  of  reminiscent  excitement  rose  to  his 
cheeks.  Gower  Street,  by  the  side  of  Cray  and 
Lymptom,  had  been  almost  adventurous. 

'  Very  well  then,'  said  Victoria,  *  we  shall  go  to 
Gower  Street  first.     Just  wait  till  I  put  on  my  hat.' 

She  ran  upstairs,  not  exactly  light  of  heart,  but 
pleased  with  the  idea  of  house-hunting.  There's 
romance  in  all  seeking,  even  if  the  ti'easure  is  to  be 
found  in  a  Bloomsbury  lodging-house. 

The  ride  on  the  top  of  the  motor  bus  was  ex- 
hilarating. The  pale  sim  of  November  was  lighting 
up  the  streets  with  the  almost  mystic  whiteness  of  the 
footlights.  Edward  said  nothing,  for  his  memories 
of  London  were  stjile  and  he  did  not  feel  secure 
enough  to  point  out   the  C'hurch  of  the   Deaf  and 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  33 

Dumb,  nor  had  he  ever  known  his  London  well 
enough  to  be  able  to  pronounce  judgment  on  the 
shops.  Besides,  Victoria  was  too  much  absorbed  in 
gazing  at  London  rolling  and  swirling  beneath  her, 
belching  out  its  crowds  of  workers  and  pleasure 
seekers  from  every  tube  and  main  street.  At  every 
shop  the  omnibus  seemed  surrounded  by  a  swarm  of 
angry  bees.  Victoria  watched  them  struggle  with 
spirit  still  unspoiled,  wondering  at  the  determination 
on  the  faces  of  the  men,  at  the  bitterness  painted  on 
the  sharp  features  of  the  women  as  they  savagely 
thrust  one  another  aside  and,  dishevelled  and  dusty, 
successively  conquered  their  seats.  All  this,  the 
constant  surge  of  horse  and  mechanical  conveyances, 
the  shrill  cries  of  the  newsboys  flashing  pink  papers 
like  chulos  at  an  angry  bull,  the  roar  of  the  town,  made 
Victoria  understand  the  city.  Something  like  fear 
of  this  strong  restless  people  crept  into  her  as  she 
began  to  have  a  dim  perception  that  she  too  would 
have  to  fight.  She  was  young,  however,  and  the 
feeling  was  not  impleasant.  Her  nerves  tingled  a 
little  as  she  thought  of  the  struggle  to  come  and  the 
inevitable  victory  at  the  end. 

Victoria's  spirits  had  not  subsided  even  when  she 
entered  Gower  Street.  Its  immensity,  its  intermin- 
able length  frightened  her  a  little.  The  contrast 
between  it,  so  quiet,  dignified  and  dull,  and  the 
inferno  she  had  just  left  behind  her  impressed  her 
with  a  sense  of  security.  Its  houses,  however,  seemed 
so  high  and  dirty  that  she  wondered,  looking  at  its 
thousand  windows,  whether  human  beings  could  be 
cooped  up  thus  and  yet  retain  their  humanity. 

Here  Edward  was  a  little  more  in  his  element. 
With  a  degree  of  animation  he  pointed  to  the  staid 
beauty  of  Bedford  Square.  He  demanded  admiration 
like  a  native  guiding  a  stranger  in  his  own  town. 
Victoria  watched  him  curiously.  He  was  a  good 
fellow  but  it  was  odd  to  hear  him  raise  his  voice  and 


34  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

1x3  see  liim  point  with  his  stick.  He  had  always  been 
quiet,  so  she  had  not  expected  him  to  show  as  much 
interest  as  he  did  in  his  old  surroundings. 

*  I  suppose  you  had  a  good  time  when  you  were 
here  ? '  she  said. 

'Nothing  special.  I  was  too  busy  at  the  school,' 
he  replied.  '  But,  of  course,  you  know,  one  does 
things  in  London.     It's  not  very  lively  at  Cray.' 

*  Wouldn't  you  like  to  leave  Cray,'  she  said,*  and 
come  back  ? ' 

Edward  paused  nervously.  London  frightened  him 
a  little  and  the  idea  of  leaving  Cray  suddenly  thrust 
upon  him  froze  him  to  the  bone.  It  was  not  Cray  he 
loved,  but  Cray  meant  a  life  passing  gently  away  by 
the  side  of  a  few  beloved  books.  Though  he  had  never 
realised  that  hedgerows  flower  in  the  spring  and  that 
trees  redden  to  gold  and  copper  in  the  autumn,  the 
country  had  taken  upon  him  so  great  a  hold  that  even 
the  thought  of  leaving  it  was  pain. 

*  Oh !  no,'  he  said  hurriedly.  '  I  couldn't  leave 
Cray.  I  couldn't  live  here,  it's  too  noisy.  There  are 
my  old  rooms,  there,  the  house  with  the  torch 
extinguishers.' 

Victoria  looked  at  him  again.  What  curious  tricks 
does  nature  play  and  how  strangely  she  pleases  to 
distort  her  own  work  !  Then  she  looked  at  the  house 
with  the  extinguishers.  Clearly  it  would  be  impos- 
sible, but  for  those  aristocratic  remains,  to  distinguish 
it  from  among  half  a  dozen  of  its  fellows.  It  was 
a  house,  that  was  all.  It  was  faced  in  dirty  brick, 
parted  at  every  floor  by  stone  work.  A  portico, 
rising  over  six  stone  steps,  protected  a  door  painted 
brown  and  bearing  a  brass  knocker.  It  had  windows, 
an  area,  bells.  It  was  impossible  to  find  in  it  an 
individual  detail  to  remember. 

But  Edward  was  talking  almost  excitedly  for  him. 
*  See  there,'  he  said,  '  those  are  my  old  rooms,'  pointing 
indefinitely  at  the  frontage.     *  They  were  quite  decent, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  35 

you  know.  Wonder  whether  they're  let.  You  could 
have  them.'  He  looked  almost  sentimentally  at  the 
home  of  the  Wrens. 

*  Why  not  ring  and  ask  ? '  said  Victoria,  whose 
resourcefulness  equalled  that  of  Mr  Dick. 

Edward  took  another  loving  look  at  the  familiar 
window,  strode  up  the  steps,  followed  by  Victoria. 

There  were  several  bells.  *  Curious,'  he  said,  '  she 
must  haA'-e  let  it  out  in  floors  ;  Wakefield  and  Grindlay, 
don't  know  them.  Seymour?  It's  Mrs  Brumfit's 
house :  Oh !  here  it  is.'  He  pressed  a  bell  marked 
*  House.'  Victoria  heard  with  a  curious  sensation  of 
unexpectedness  the  sudden  shrill  sound  of  the  electric 
bell. 

After  an  interminable  interval,  during  which 
Edward's  hands  nervously  played,  the  door  opened. 
A  young  girl  stood  on  the  threshold.  She  wore  a 
red  cloth  blouse,  a  black  skirt,  and  an  unspeakably 
dirty  apron  half  loose  round  her  waist.  Her  hair 
was  tightly  done  up  in  curlers  in  expectation  of 
Sunday. 

*  Mrs  Brumfit,'  said  Edward,  *  is  she  in  ? ' 
'  '00  ? '  said  the  girl, 

'Mrs  Brumfit,  the  landlady,'  said  Edward. 

*  Don't  know  'er,  try  next  'ouse.'  The  girl  tried  to 
shut  the  door. 

'You  don't  understand,'  cried  Edward,  stopping 
the  door  with  his  hand.     '  I  used  to  live  here.' 

'  Well,  wot  do  yer  want  ? '  replied  the  girl.  *  Can't 
'elp  that,  can  I?  There  ain't  no  Mrs  Bnimfit  'ere. 
Only  them  there.'  She  pointed  at  the  bells.  'No- 
body but  them  and  mother.  She's  the  'ousekeeper. 
If  yer  mean  the  old  woman  as  was  'ere  when  they 
turned  the  'ouse  into  flats,  she's  dead.' 

Edward  stepped  back.  The  girl  shut  the  door 
with  a  slam.  He  stood  as  if  petrified.  Victoria 
looked  at  him  with  amusement  in  her  eyes,  listening 
to  the  echoes  of  the  girl's  voice  singing  more  and 


36  A  BED   OF  ROSES 

more  faintly  some  catchy  tune  as  she  descended  into 
the  basement. 

'Dead,'  said  Edward,  'can  it  be  possible — ?'  He 
looked  like  a  plant  torn  up  by  the  roots.  He  had 
jumped  on  the  old  ground  and  it  had  given  way. 

'  My  dear  Ted,'  said  Victoria  gently, '  things  change, 
you  see.'  Slowly  they  went  down  the  steps  of  the 
house.  Victoria  did  not  speak,  for  a  strange  mixture 
of  pity  and  disdain  was  in  her.  She  quite  under- 
stood that  a  tie  had  been  severed  and  that  the  death 
of  his  old  landlady  meant  for  Edward  that  the  past 
which  he  had  vaguely  loved  had  died  with  her.  He 
was  one  of  those  amorphous  creatures  whose  life  is 
BO  interwoven  with  that  of  their  fellows  that  any 
death  throws  it  into  disarray.  She  let  him  brood  over 
his  lost  memories  until  they  reached  Bedford  Square. 

*  But  Ted,'  she  broke  in,  '  where  am  I  to  go  ?  ' 
Edward  looked  at  her  as  if  dazed.     Clearly  he  had 

not  foreseen  that  Mrs  Brumfit  was  not  an  institution. 

*  Go  ?  '  he  said, '  I  don't  know.' 

'  Don't  you  know  any  other  lodgings  ?  *  asked 
Victoria.     *  Gower  Street  seems  full  of  them.' 

*  Oh !  no,'  said  Edward  quickly,  *  we  don't  know 
what  sort  of  places  they  are.     You  couldn't  go  there.' 

*  But  where  am  I  to  go  then  ? '  Victoria  persisted. 
Edward  was  silent.  *  It  seems  to  me,'  his  sister  went 
on,  '  that  I  shall  have  to  risk  it.  After  all ,  they  won't 
murder  me  and  they  can't  rob  me  of  much.' 

'Please  don't  talk  like  that,'  said  Edward  stiffly. 
He  did  not  like  this  association  of  ideas. 

'  Well  I  must  find  some  lodgings,'  said  Victoria, 
a  little  irritably.  *  In  that  case  I  may  as  well  look 
round  near  Curran's.      I  don't  like  this  street  much.' 

In  default  of  an  alternative,  Edward  looked  sulky. 
Victoria  felt  remorseful ;  she  knew  that  Gower 
Street  must  have  become  for  her  brother  the 
traveller's  Mecca  and  that  he  was  vaguely  afraid  of 
the  West  End. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  37 

*  Never  mind,  dear,'  she  went  on  more  gently, 
*  don't  worry  about  lodgings  any  more.  Do  you  know 
what  you're  going  to  do  ?  you're  going  to  take  me  to 
tea  in  some  nice  place  and  then  I'll  go  with  you  to 
St  Pancras;  that's  the  station  you  said  you  were 
going  back  by,  isn't  it  ?  and  you'll  put  me  in  a  bus 
and  I'll  go  home.  Now,  come  along,  it's  past  five 
and  I'm  dying  for  some  tea.' 

As  Victoria  stood,  an  hour  later,  just  outside  the 
station  in  which  expires  the  spirit  of  Constantino  the 
Great,  she  could  not  help  feeling  relieved.  As  she 
stood  there,  so  self-possessed,  seeing  so  clearly  the 
busy  world,  she  wondered  why  she  had  been  given 
a  broken  reed  to  lean  upon.  Where  had  her  brother 
left  his  virility?  Had  it  been  sapped  by  years  of 
self-restraint  ?  Had  the  formidable  code  of  pretence, 
the  daily  affectation  of  dignity,  the  perpetual  giving 
of  good  examples,  reduced  him  to  this  shred  of 
humanity,  so  timid,  so  resourceless  ?  As  she  sped 
home  in  the  tube  into  which  she  had  been  directed 
by  a  policeman,  she  vainly  turned  over  the  problem. 

Fortunately  Victoria  was  young.  As  she  laid  her 
head  on  the  pillow,  conscious  of  the  coming  of  Sunday, 
when  nothing  could  be  done,  visions  of  things  she 
could  do  obsessed  her.  There  were  lodgings  to  find, 
nice,  clean,  cheap  lodgings,  with  a  dear  old  landlady 
and  trees  outside  the  window,  in  a  pretty  old-fashioned 
house,  very  very  quiet  and  quite  near  all  the  tubes. 
She  nursed  the  ideal  for  a  time.  Then  she  thought 
of  careers.  She  would  read  all  the  advertisements 
and  pick  out  the  nicest  work.  Perhaps  she  could  be 
a  housekeeper.  Or  a  secretary.  On  reflection,  a 
secretary  would  be  better.  It  might  be  so  interesting. 
Fancy  being  secretary  to  a  member  of  Parliament. 
Or  to  a  famous  author. 

She  too  might  write. 

Her  dreams  were  pleasant. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  WEEK  had  elapsed  and  Victoria  was  beginning  to 
feel  the  strain.  She  looked  out  from  the  window 
into  the  little  street  where  fine  rain  fell  gently  as 
if  it  had  decided  to  do  so  for  ever.  It  was  deserted, 
save  by  a  cat  who  shivered  and  crouched  under  the 
archway  of  the  mews.  Sometimes  a  horse  stirred. 
Through  the  open  window  the  hot  alcaline  smell 
of  the  animals  filtered  slowly. 

Victoria  had  found  her  lodgings.  They  were  not 
quite  the  ideal,  but  she  had  not  seen  the  ideal  and  this 
little  den  in  Portsea  Place  was  not  without  its  charms. 
Her  room,  for  the  '  rooms '  had  turned  from  the 
plural  into  the  singular,  was  comfortable  enough. 
It  occupied  the  front  of  the  second  floor  in  a  small 
house.  It  had  two  windows,  from  which,  by  craning 
out  a  little,  the  trees  of  Connaught  Square  could  be 
seen  standing  out  like  black  skeletons  against  a  white 
house.  Opposite  was  the  archway  of  the  mews  out 
of  which  came  most  of  the  traffic  of  the  street.  Under 
it  too  was  the  mart  where  the  landladies  who  have 
invaded  the  little  street  exchange  notes  on  their 
lodgers  and  boast  of  their  ailments. 

Victoria  inspected  her  domain.  She  had  a  very 
big  bed,  a  little  inclined  to  creak ;  she  had  a  table 
on  a  pedestal  split  so  cunningly  at  the  base  that  she 
was  always  table-conscious  when  she  sat  by  it ;  she 
had  a  mahogany  wash-stand,  also  on  the  triangular 
pedestal  loved  by  the  pre-Morrisites,  enriched  by  a 
white  marble  top  and  splasher.     A  lai'ge  armchair, 

38 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  39 

smootli  and  rather  treacherous,  a  small  mahogany 
chest  of  drawers,  every  drawer  of  which  took  a 
minute  to  pull  out,  some  chairs  of  no  importance, 
completed  her  furniture.  The  carpet  had  been  of 
all  colours  and  was  now  of  none.  The  tablecloth  was 
blue  serge  and  would  have  been  serviceabe  if  it  had 
not  contracted  the  habit  of  sliding  off  the  mahogany 
table  whenever  it  was  touched.  Ugly  as  it  was  in 
every  detail,  Victoria  could  not  help  thinking  the 
room  comfortable  ;  its  light  paper  saved  it  and  it  was 
not  over-loaded  with  pictures.  It  had  escaped  with 
one  text  and  the  '  Sailor's  Homecoming.'  Besides  it 
was  restrained  in  colour  and  solid  :  it  was  comfortable 
like  roast  beef  and  boiled  potatoes. 

Victoria  looked  at  all  these  things,  at  her  few 
scattered  books,  the  picture  of  Dick  and  of  a  group  of 
school  friends,  at  some  of  her  boots  piled  in  a  corner. 
Then  she  listened  and  heard  nothing.  Once  more 
she  was  struck  by  the  emptiness,  the  darkness  around 
her.  She  was  alone.  She  had  been  alone  a  whole 
week,  hardly  knowing  what  to  do.  The  excitement 
of  choosing  lodgings  over,  she  had  found  time  hang 
heavy  on  her  hands.  She  had  interminably  walked 
in  London,  gazed  at  shop  windows,  read  hundreds  of 
imbecile  picture  postcards  on  bookstalls,  gone  con- 
tinually to  many  places  in  omnibuses.  She  had 
stumbled  upon  South  Kensington  and  wandered  in 
its  catacombs  of  stone  and  brick.  She  had  discovered 
Hampstead,  lost  herself  horribly  near  Albany  Street  ; 
she  had  even  unexpectedly  landed  in  the  City  where 
rushing  mobs  had  hustled  and  battered  her. 

Faithful  to  her  resolve  she  had  sedulously  read  the 
morning  papers  and  applied  for  several  posts  as 
housekeeper  without  receiving  any  answers.  She 
had  realised  that  answering  advertisements  must  be 
an  art  and  had  become  quite  conscious  that  employ- 
ment was  not  so  easy  to  find  as  she  thought.  Nobody 
seemed     to    want    secretaries,     except    the    limited 


46  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

companies,  about  which  she  was  not  quite  clear.  As 
these  mostly  required  the  investment  of  a  hundred 
pounds  or  more  she  had  not  followed  them  up. 

She  paced  up  and  down  in  her  room.  The  after- 
noon was  wearing.  Soon  the  man  downstairs  would 
come  back  and  slam  the  door.  A  little  later  the 
young  lady  in  the  City  would  gently  enter  the  room 
behind  hers  and,  after  washing  in  an  unobtrusive 
manner,  would  discreetly  leave  for  an  hour.  Mean- 
while nothing  broke  the  silence,  except  the  postman's 
knock  coming  nearer  and  nearer  along  Portsea  Place. 
It  fell  unheeded  even  on  her  own  front  door,  for 
Victoria's  ears  were  already  attuned  to  the  sound.  It 
meant  nothing. 

She  walked  up  and  down  nervously.  She  looked 
at  herself  in  the  glass.  She  was  pretty  she  thought, 
with  her  creamy  skin  and  thick  hair ;  her  eyes  too 
were  good ;  what  a  pity  her  chin  was  so  thick.  That's 
why  Dicky  used  to  call  her  *  Towzer.'  Poor  old 
Dicky ! 

Shuffling  footsteps  rose  up  the  stairs.  Then  a 
knock.  At  Victoria's  invitation,  a  woman  entered. 
It  was  Mrs  Bell,  the  landlady. 

'  Why,  ma'am,  you're  sitting  in  the  dark  !  Let  me 
light  the  lamp,'  cried  Mrs  Bell,  producing  a  large 
wooden  box  from  a  capacious  front  pocket.  She  lit 
the  lamp  and  a  yellow  glow  filled  the  room,  except 
the  corners  which  remained  in  darkness. 

'Here's  a  letter  for  you,  ma'am,'  said  Mrs  Bell 
holding  it  out.  As  Victoria  took  it,  Mrs  Bell  beamed 
on  her  approvingly.  She  liked  her  new  lodger.  She 
had  already  informed  the  gathering  under  the  arch- 
way that  she  was  a  real  lady.  She  had  a  leaning  for 
real  ladies,  having  been  a  parlourmaid  previous  to 
marrying  a  butler  and  eking  out  his  income  by 
letting  rooms. 

'Thank  you,  Mrs  Bell,'  said  Victoria,  'it  was  kind 
of  you  to  come  up.' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  41 

*  Oh !  ma'am,  no  trouble  I  can  assure  you,'  said 
Mrs  Bell,  with  a  mixture  of  respect  and  patronage. 
She  wanted  to  be  kind  to  her  lodger,  but  she  found 
a  difficulty  in  being  kind  to  so  real  a  lady. 

Victoria  saw  the  letter  was  from  Edward  and  opened 
it  hurriedly.  Mrs  Bell  hesitated,  looking  with  her 
black  dress,  clean  face  and  grey  hair,  the  picture  of 
the  respectable  maid.  Then  she  turned  and  struggled 
out  on  her  worn  shoes,  the  one  blot  on  her  neatness. 
Victoria  read  the  letter,  bending  perilously  over  the 
lamp  which  smoked  like  a  funnel.  The  letter  was 
quite  short ;  it  ran : 

My  dear  Victoria, — I  am  sorry  I  could  not  write 
before  now,  but  I  wanted  to  have  some  news  to  give 
you.  I  am  glad  to  say  that  I  have  been  able  to 
interest  the  vicar  on  your  behalf.  He  informs  me  that 
if  you  will  call  at  once  on  Lady  Rockham,  7a  Queen's 
Gate,  South  Kensington,  S.W.,  she  may  be  in  a 
position  to  find  you  a  post  in  a  family  of  standing. 
He  tells  me  she  is  most  capable  and  kind.  He 
is  writing  to  her.  I  shall  come  to  London  and  see  you 
soon. — Yours  affectionately, 

Edward.' 

Victoria  fingered  the  letter  lovingly.  Perhaps  she 
was  going  to  have  a  chance  after  all.  It  was  good  to 
have  something  to  do.  Indeed  it  seemed  almost  too 
good  to  be  true  ;  she  had  vaguely  resigned  herself  to 
unemployment.  Of  course  something  would  ulti- 
mately turn  up,  but  the  what  and  when  and  how 
thereof  were  dangerously  dim.  She  hardly  cared  to 
face  these  ideas ;  indeed  she  dismissed  them  when 
tliey  occuri-ed  to  her  with  a  mixtui-e  of  depression  and 
optimism.  Now,  however,  she  was  buoyant  again. 
The  family  of  standing  would  probably  pay  well  and 
demand  little.  It  would  mean  the  theatres,  the  shops, 
flowers,  the  latest  novels,  no  end  of  nice  things.  A 
little  work  too,  of  course,  driving  in  the  Park  with  a 
dear  dowager  with  the  most  lovely  white  hair. 


42  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

She  ate  an  excellent  and  comparatively  expensive 
dinner  in  an  Oxford  Street  restaurant  and  went  to 
bed  early  for  the  express  purpose  of  making  plans 
until  she  feU  asleep.  She  was  still  buoyant  in  the 
morning.  Connaught  Square  looked  its  best  and 
even  South  Kensington's  stony  face  melted  into 
smiles  when  it  caught  sight  of  her.  Lady  Rockham's 
was  a  mighty  house,  the  very  house  for  a  family  of 
standing. 

Victoria  walked  up  the  four  steep  steps  of  the  house 
where  something  of  her  fate  was  to  be  decided.  She 
hesitated  for  an  instant  and  then,  being  healthily 
inclined  to  take  plunges,  pulled  the  bell  with  a  little 
more  vigour  than  was  in  her  heart.  It  echoed 
tremendously.  The  quietude  of  Queen's  Gate 
stretching  apparently  for  miles  towards  the  south, 
increased  the  terrifying  noise.  Victoria's  anticipa- 
tions were  half  pleasureable,  half  fearsome ;  she  felt 
on  the  brink  of  an  adventure  and  recalled  the  tremor 
with  which  she  had  entered  the  New  Gaiety  for  the 
first  time.  Measured  steps  came  nearer  and  nearer 
from  the  inside  of  the  house ;  a  shape  silhouetted 
itself  vaguely  on  the  stained  glass  of  the  door. 

She  mustered  sufficient  coolness  to  tell  the  butler 
that  she  wished  to  see  Lady  Rockham,  who  was 
probably  expecting  her.  As  the  large  and  solid  man 
preceded  her  along  an  interminable  hall,  she  felt 
rather  than  saw  the  thick  Persian  rug  stretching 
along  the  crude  mosaic  of  the  floor,  the  red  paper  on 
the  walls  almost  entirely  hidden  by  exceedingly  large 
and  new  pictures.  Over  her  head  a  ponderous  iron 
chandelier  carrying  many  electric  lamj)s  blotted  out 
most  of  the  staircase. 

For  some  minutes  she  waited  in  the  dining-room 
into  which  she  had  been  shown  ;  for  the  butler  was  not 
at  all  certain,  from  a  look  at  the  visitor's  mourning, 
that  slie  was  quite  entitled  to  the  boudoir.  Victoria's 
square  chin  and  steady  eyes  saved  her,  however,  from 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  43 

having  to  accommodate  her  spine  to  the  exceeding 
perpendicularity  of  the  high-backed  chairs  in  the  hall. 
The  dining-room,  ridiculous  thought,  reminded  her 
of  Curran's.  In  every  particular  it  seemed  the  same. 
There  was  the  large  table  with  the  thick  cloth  of 
indefinite  design  and  colour.  The  sideboard  too  was 
there,  larger  and  richer  perhaps,  of  Spanish  mahogany 
not  an  inch  of  which  was  left  bare  of  garlands  of 
flowers  or  archangelic  faces.  It  carried  Curran's 
looking-glass;  Curran's  cruets  were  replaced  by  a 
number  of  cups  which  proclaimed  that  Charles 
Rockham  had  once  won  the  Junior  Sculls,  and  more 
recently,  the  spring  handicap  of  the  Kidderwick  Golf 
Club.  The  walls  were  red  as  in  the  haU  and  pro- 
fusely decorated  with  large  pictures  representing 
various  generations  having  tea  in  old  English  gardens, 
decorously  garbed  Roman  ladies  basking  by  the  side 
of  marble  basins,  and  such  like  subjects.  Twelve 
chairs,  all  high  backed  and  heavily  gi-oined,  were 
ranged  round  the  walls,  with  the  exception  of  a 
large  carving  chair,  standing  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
awaiting  one  who  was  clearly  the  head  of  a  household. 
Victoria  was  looking  pensively  at  the  large  black 
marble  clock  representing  the  temple  in  which  the 
Lares  and  Penates  of  South  Kensington  usually  dwell, 
when  the  door  opened  and  a  vigorous  rustle  entered 
the  room. 

'  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mrs  Fulton,'  remarked 
the  owner  of  the  rustle.  *I  have  just  received  a 
letter  from  Mr  Meaker,  the  vicar  of  Cray.  A  most 
excellent  man.  I  am  sure  we  can  do  something  for 
you.     Something  quite  nice.' 

Victoria  looked  at  Lady  Rockham  with  shyness  and 
surprise.  Never  had  she  seen  anything  so  majestic. 
Lady  Rockham  had  but  latety  attained  her  ladyhood 
by  marrying  a  knight  bachelor  whose  name  was  a 
household  word  in  the  wood-paving  world.  She  felt 
at  peace  with  the  universe.     Her  large   silk  clad 


44  A  BED   OF  ROSES 

person  was  redolent  with  content.  She  did  not 
vulgarly  beam.  She  merely  was.  On  her  capacious 
bosom  large  brooches  rose  and  fell  rhythmically. 
Her  face  was  round  and  smooth  as  her  voice.  Her 
eyes  were  almost  severely  healthy. 

*  I  am  sure  it  is  very  kind  of  you,'  said  Victoria. 
*  I  don't  know  anybody  in  London,  you  see.' 

*  That  will  not  matter ;  that  will  not  matter  at  all,' 
said  Lady  Rockham.  *  Some  people  prefer  those  whose 
connections  live  in  the  country,  yes,  absolutely 
prefer  them.  Why,  friends  come  to  me  every  day, 
and  they  are  clamouring  for  country  girls,  absolutely 
clamoui-ing.  I  do  hope  you  are  not  too  particular. 
For  things  are  difficult  in  London.  So  very 
difficult.' 

'  Yes,  I  know,'  murmured  Victoria,  thinking  of  her 
unanswered  applications.  '  But  I'm  not  particular  at 
all.  If  you  can  find  me  anything  to  do.  Lady 
Rockham,  I  should  be  so  grateful.' 

'  Of  course,  of  course.  Now  let  me  see.  A  young 
friend  of  mine  has  just  started  a  poultry  farm  in 
Dorset.  She  is  doing  very  well.  Oh!  very  well.  Of 
course  you  want  a  little  capital.  But  such  a  very 
nice  occupation  for  a  young  woman.  The  capital  is 
often  the  difficulty.  Perhaps  you  would  not  be  pre- 
pared to  invest  much  ? ' 

'  No,  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't,'  faltered  Victoria, 
wondering  at  what  figure  capital  began. 

'  No,  no,  quite  right,'  pui-red  Lady  Rockham,  *  I 
can  see  you  are  quite  sensible.  It  is  a  little  risky  too. 
Yet  my  young  friend  is  doing  well,  very  well,  indeed. 
Her  sister  is  in  Johannesburg.  She  went  out  as  a 
governess  and  now  she  is  married  to  a  mine  manager. 
There  are  so  few  girls  in  the  country.  Oh  !  he  is 
quite  a  nice  man,  a  little  rough,  I  should  say,  but 
quite  suitable.' 

Victoria  wondered  for  a  moment  whether  her  Lady- 
ship was  going  to  suggest  sending  her  out  to  Johan- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  45 

nesburg  to  marry  a  mine  manager,  but  tbe  Presence 
resumed. 

'  No  doubt  you  would  ratber  stay  in  London. 
Things  are  a  little  difficult  here,  but  very  pleasant, 
very  pleasant  indeed.' 

*  I  don't  mind  things  being  difficult,'  Victoria  broke 
in,  mustering  a  little  courage.  *  I  must  earn  my  own 
living  and  I  don't  mind  what  I  do  ;  I'd  be  a  nursery 
governess,  or  a  housekeeper,  or  companion.  I  haven't 
got  any  degrees,  I  couldn't  quite  be  a  governess,  but 
I'd  try  anything.' 

*  Certainly,  certainly,  I'm  sure  we  will  find  some- 
thing very  nice  for  you.  I  can't  think  of  anybody 
just  now  but  leave  me  your  address.  I'll  let  you 
know  as  soon  as  I  hear  of  anything.'  Lady  Rockham 
gently  crossed  her  hands  over  her  waistband  and 
benevolently  smiled  at  her  protegee. 

Victoria  wrote  down  her  address  and  listened 
patiently  to  Lady  Rockham  who  discoursed  at  length 
on  the  imperfections  of  the  weather,  the  noisiness  of 
London  streets  and  the  prowess  of  Charless  Rockham 
on  the  Kidderwick  links.  She  felt  conscious  of 
having  to  return  thanks  for  what  she  was  about  to 
receive. 

Lady  Rockham's  kindness  persisted  up  to  the  door 
to  which  she  showed  Victoria.  She  dismissed  her 
with  the  Parthian  shot  that  '  they  woidd  find  some- 
thing for  her,  something  quite  nice.' 

Victoria  walked  away ;  cold  gusts  of  wind  struck 
her,  chilling  her  to  the  bone,  catching  and  furling  her 
skirts  about  her.  She  felt  at  the  same  time  cheered 
and  depressed.  The  interview  had  been  inconclusive. 
However,  as  she  walked  over  the  Serpentine  bridge, 
imder  which  the  wind  was  angrily  ruffling  the  black 
water,  a  great  wave  of  optimism  came  over  her ;  for  it 
was  late,  and  she  remembered  that  in  the  Edgware 
Road,  there  was  a  small  Italian  restaurant  where  she 
was  about  to  lunch. 


46  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

It  was  well  for  Victoria  that  she  was  an  optimist  and 
a  good  sleeper,  for  Norember  had  waned  into  December 
before  anything  happened  to  disturb  the  tenor  of  her 
life.  For  a  whole  fortnight  she  had  heard  nothing 
from  Lady  Rockham  or  from  Edward.  She  had 
written  to  Molly  but  had  received  no  answer.  All 
day  long  the  knocker  fell  with  brutal  emphasis  upon 
the  doors  of  Portsea  Place  and  brought  her  nothing. 
She  did  not  think  much  or  hope  much.  She  did 
nothing  and  spent  little.  Her  only  companion  was 
Mrs  Bell,  who  still  hovered  round  her  mysterious 
lodger,  so  ladylike  and  so  quiet. 

She  passed  hours  sometimes  at  the  window  watch- 
ing the  stream  of  life  in  Portsea  Place.  The  stream 
did  not  flow  very  swiftly ;  its  principal  eddies 
vanished  by  midday  with  the  milkman  and  the 
butcher.  The  postman  recurred  more  often  but  he 
did  not  count.  Now  and  then  the  policeman  passed 
and  spied  suspiciously  into  the  archway  where  the 
landladies  no  longer  met.  Cabs  trotted  into  it  now 
and  then  to  change  horses. 

Victoria  watched  alone.  Beyond  Mrs  Bell,  she 
seemed  to  know  nobody.  The  young  man  downstairs 
continued  to  be  invisible,  and  contented  himself  with 
slamming  the  door.  The  young  lady  in  the  back  room 
continued  to  wash  discreetly  and  to  snore  gently  at 
night.  Sometimes  Victoria  ventured  abroad  to  be 
bitten  by  the  blast.  Sometimes  she  strayed  over  the 
town  in  the  intervals  of  food.  She  had  to  exercise 
caution  in  this,  for  an  aspect  of  the  lodging  house 
fire  had  only  lately  dawned  upon  her.  If  she  did  not 
order  it  at  all  she  was  met  on  the  threshold  by  dark- 
ness and  cold  ;  if  she  ordered  it  for  a  given  time  she 
was  so  often  late  that  she  returned  to  find  it  dead  or 
kept  up  wastefidly  at  the  rate  of  sixpence  a  scuttle. 
This  trouble  was  chronic ;  on  bitter  days  it  seemed  to 
dog  her  footsteps. 

She  had  almost  grown   accustomed  to  loneliness. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  47 

Alone  she  watched  at  her  window  or  paced  the  streets. 
She  had  established  a  quasi-right  to  a  certain  seat  at 
the  Italian  restaurant  where  the  waiters  had  ceased 
to  speculate  as  to  who  she  was.  The  demoralisation 
of  unemplojrment  was  upon  her.  She  did  not  cast 
■up  her  accounts  ;  she  rose  late,  made  no  plans.  She 
slept  and  ate,  careless  of  the  morrow. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  slow  settling  into 
despond  that  a  short  note  from  Lady  Rockham 
arrived  like  a  boomshell.  It  asked  her  to  call  on 
a  Mrs  Holt  who  lived  in  Fmchley  Road.  It  appeared 
that  Mrs  Kolt  was  in  need  of  a  companion  as  her 
husband  was  often  away.  Victoria  was  shaken  out 
of  her  torpor.  In  a  trice  her  optimism  crushed  out  of 
sight  the  flat  thoughts  of  aimless  days.  She  feverishly 
dressed  for  the  occasion.  She  debated  whether  she 
would  have  time  to  insert  a  new  white  frill  into  the 
neck  of  a  black  blouse.  Heedless  of  expenditure  she 
spent  two  and  eleven  pence  on  new  black  gloves,  and 
twopence  on  the  services  of  a  shoeblack  who  whistled 
cheerful  tunes,  and  smiled  on  the  coppers.  Victoria 
sallied  out  to  certain  victory.  The  wind  was  blowing 
balmier.  A  fitful  gleam  of  sunshine  lit  up  and 
reddened  the  pile  of  tangerines  in  a  shop  window. 


CHAPTER  Vn 

'I'm  very  sorry  you  can't  come,'  said  Mrs  Holt. 
*  Last  Sunday,  Mr  Baker  was  so  nice.  I  never  heard 
anything  so  interesting  as  his  sermon  on  the  personal 
devil.  I  was  quite  frightened.  At  least  I  would  have 
been  if  he  had  said  all  that  at  Bethlehem.  You  know, 
when  we  were  at  Rawsley  we  had  such  nice  lantern 
lectures.     I  do  miss  them.' 

Victoria  looked  up  with  a  smile  at  the  kindly  red 
face.  'I'm  so  sorry,'  she  said,  'I've  got  such  a 
headache.  Perhaps  it'll  pass  over  if  I  go  for  a  little 
walk  while  you  are  at  Church.'  She  was  not  uncon- 
scious, as  she  said  this,  of  the  subtle  flattery  that  the 
use  of  the  word  'church'  implies  when  used  to 
people  who  dare  not  leave  their  chapel. 

'  Do,  Victoria,  I'm  sure  it  will  do  you  good,'  said 
Mrs  Holt,  kindly.  '  If  the  sun  keeps  on,  we'll  go  to 
the  Zoo  this  afternoon.  I  do  like  to  see  the  children 
in  the  monkey  house' 

'I'm  sure  I  shall  be  glad  to  go,'  said  Victoria 
quietly.     '  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  take  me.' 

'  Nonsense,  my  dear,'  replied  Mrs  Holt,  gently 
beaming.  *  You  are  like  tlie  sunshine,  you  know. 
Dear  me !  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  if 
I  hadn't  found  you.  You  can't  imagine  the  woman 
who  was  here  before  you.  She  was  the  daughter  of 
a  clergyman,  and  I  did  get  so  tired  of  hearing  how 
they  lost  their  money.  But,  there,  I'm  worrying  you 
when  you've  got  a  headache.  I  do  wish  you'd  try 
Dr  Eberman's  pills.     All  the  papers  are  simply  full 

4« 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  49 

of  advertisements  about  them.  And  these  German 
doctors  are  so  clever.     Oh,  I  shall  be  so  late.' 

Victoria  assured  her  that  she  was  sure  her  head 
would  be  better  by  dinner  time.  Mrs  Holt  fussed 
about  the  room  for  a  moment,  anxiously  tested  the 
possible  dustiness  of  a  bracket,  pulled  the  curtains 
and  picked  up  the  Sunday  papers  from  the  floor. 
She  then  collected  a  small  canvas  bag  decorated  with 
a  rainbow  parrot,  a  hymn  and  service  book,  her 
spectacle  case,  several  unnecessary  articles  which 
happened  to  be  about  and  left  the  room  with  the 
characteristic  rustle  which  pervades  the  black  silk 
dresses  of  well-to-do  Rawsley  dames. 

Victoria  sat  back  in  the  large  leather  armchair. 
Her  head  was  not  very  bad  but  she  felt  just  enough 
in  her  temples  a  tiny  passing  twinge  to  shirk  chapel 
without  qualms.  She  toyed  with  a  broken  backed 
copy  of  Charlton  on  Book-Keeping  which  lay  in  her 
lap.  It  was  a  curious  fate  that  had  landed  her  into 
Charlton's  epoch  making  work.  Mrs  Holt,  that  prince 
of  good  fellows,  had  a  genius  for  saving  pennies  and 
had  been  trained  in  the  school  of  a  Midland  house- 
hold, but  the  fortunes  of  her  husband  had  left  her 
feebly  struggling  in  a  backwash  of  pounds.  So 
much  had  this  been  the  case  that  Mr  Holt  had 
discovered  joyfully  that  he  had  at  last  in  his  house  a 
woman  who  could  bring  herself  to  passing  an  account 
for  twenty  pounds  for  stabling.  Little  by  little 
Victoria  had  established  her  position.  She  was 
Mrs  Holt's  necessary  companion  and  factotum.  She 
could  apparently  do  anything  and  do  it  well ;  she 
could  even  tackle  such  intricate  tasks  as  checking 
washing  or  understanding  Bradshaw.  She  was 
always  ready  and  always  bright.  She  had  an 
unerring  eye  for  a  good  quality  of  velvet ;  she  could 
time  the  carriage  to  a  nicety  for  the  Albert  Hall 
concert.  Mrs  Holt  felt  that  without  this  pleasant 
and  competent  young  woman  she  would  be  quite  lost 

D 


so  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Mr  Holt,  too,  after  inspecting  Victoria  grimly  every 
day  for  an  entire  month,  had  decided  that  she  would 
do  and  had  lent  her  the  work  on  book-keeping,  hoping 
that  she  would  be  able  to  keep  the  house  accounts. 
In  three  months  he  had  not  addressed  her  twenty 
times  beyond  wishing  her  good  morning  and  good 
night.  He  had  but  reluctantly  left  Ilawsley  and  his 
beloved  cement  works  to  superintend  his  ever  growing 
London  business.  He  was  a  little  suspicious  of 
Victoria's  easy  manners ;  suspicious  of  her  intentions, 
too,  as  the  northerner  is  wont  to  be.  Yet  he 
grudgingly  admitted  that  she  was  level  headed, 
which  was  'more  than  Maria  or  his  fool  of  a  son 
would  ever  be.' 

Victoria  thought  for  a  moment  of  Holt,  the  book- 
keeping, the  falling  due  of  insurance  premiums ; 
then  of  Mrs  Holt  who  had  just  stepped  into  her 
carriage  which  was  slowly  proceeding  down  the 
drive,  crunching  into  the  hard  gravel.  A  gleam  of 
sunshine  fitfully  lit  up  the  polished  panels  of  the 
clumsy  barouche  as  it  vanished  through  the  gate. 

This  then  was  her  life.  It  might  well  have  been 
worse.  Mr  Holt  sometimes  let  a  rough  kindness 
appear  through  an  exterior  as  hard  as  his  own 
cement.  Mrs  Holt,  stout,  comfortable  and  good- 
tempered,  quite  incompetent  when  it  came  to  con- 
trolling a  house  in  the  Finchley  Road,  was  not  of 
the  termagent  type  that  Victoria  had  expected  when 
she  became  a  companion.  Her  nature,  peaceful  as 
that  of  a  mollusc,  was  kind  and  had  but  one  out- 
standing feature ;  her  passionate  devotion  to  her 
son  Jack. 

Victoria  thought  that  she  might  well  be  content  to 
pass  the  remainder  of  her  days  among  these  good 
folk.  From  the  bottom  of  her  heart  mild  discontent 
rose  every  now  and  then.  It  was  a  little  dull. 
Tuesday  was  like  Monday  and  probably  like  the 
Tuesday  after  next.     The  glories  of  the  town,  which 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  51 

she  liad  caught  sight  of  during  her  wanderings, 
before  she  floated  into  the  still  waters  of  the  Finchley 
Road,  haunted  her  at  times.  The  motor  buses  too, 
which  perpetually  carried  couples  to  the  theatre,  the 
crowds  in  Regent  Street  making  for  the  tea-shops, 
while  the  barouche  trotted  sedately  up  the  hill,  all 
this  life  and  adventure  were  closed  off. 

Victoria  was  not  unhappy.  She  drifted  in  that 
singular  psychological  region  where  the  greatest 
possible  pain  is  not  suffering  and  where  the  acme 
of  possible  pleasure  is  not  joy.  She  did  not  realise 
that  this  negative  condition  was  almost  happiness, 
and  yet  did  not  precisely  repine.  The  romance  of 
her  life,  born  at  Lympton,  now  slept  under  the 
tamarinds.  The  stupefaction  of  the  search  for  work, 
the  hopes  and  fears  of  December,  all  that  lay  far 
away  in  those  dark  chambers  of  the  brain  into  which 
memory  cannot  force  a  way  but  swoons  on  the 
threshold. 

Yes,  she  was  happy  enough.  Her  eyes,  casting 
tlirough  the  bay  window  over  the  evergreens,  trimly 
stationed  and  dusty,  strayed  over  the  low  wall.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  road  stood  another  house,  low 
and  solid  as  this  one,  beautiful  though  ugly  in  its 
strength  and  worth.  It  is  not  the  house  you  live  in 
that  matters,  thought  Victoria,  unconsciously  com- 
mitting plagiarism,  but  the  house  opposite.  The 
house  she  lived  in  was  well  enough.  Its  inhabitants 
were  kind,  the  servants  respectful,  even  the  mongrel 
Manchester  terrier  with  the  melancholy  eyes  of  some 
collie  ancestor  did  not  gnaw  her  boots. 

She  let  her  hands  fall  into  her  lap  and,  for  a  minute, 
sat  staring  into  space,  seeing  with  extraordinary 
lucidity  those  things  to  come  which  a  movement 
dispels  and  swathes  with  the  dense  fog  of  forgetful- 
ness.  With  terrible  clarity  she  saw  the  life  of  the 
last  three  months  and  the  life  to  come,  as  it  was  in 
the  beginning  ever  to  be. 


Sa  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

The  door  opened  softly.  Before  she  had  time  to 
turn  round  two  hands  were  clapped  over  her  eyes. 
She  struggled  to  free  herself,  but  the  hands  grew 
more  insistent  and  two  thumbs  softly  touched  her 
cheeks. 

'Dimple,  dimple,'  said  a  voice,  while  one  of  the 
thumbs  gently  dwelled  near  the  corner  of  her  mouth. 

Victoria  struggled  to  her  feet,  a  little  flushed,  a 
strand  of  hair  flying  over  her  left  ear. 

'  Mr  Jack,'  she  said  rather  curtly,  '  I  don't  like  that. 
You  know  you  mustn't  do  that.  It's  not  fair.  I  really 
don't  like  it.'  She  was  angry ;  her  nostrils  opened 
and  shut  quickly ;  she  glared  at  the  good  looking 
bo}''  before  her. 

'Naughty  temper,'  he  remarked,  quite  imruffled. 
'You'll  take  a  fit  one  of  these  days,  Vicky,  if  you 
don't  look  out.' 

'  Very  likely  if  you  give  me  starts  like  that.  Not 
that  I  mind  that  so  much,  but  really  it's  not  nice  of 
you.  You  know  you  wouldn't  do  that  if  your  mother 
was  looking.' 

*  Course  I  wouldn't,'  said  Jack,  '  the  old  mater's 
such  a  back  number,  you  know.' 

'  Then,'  replied  Victoria  with  much  dignity,  '  you 
ought  not  to  do  things  when  we're  alone  which  you 
wouldn't  do  before  her.' 

'  Oh  Lord !  morals  again,'  groaned  the  youth. 
'  You  are  rough  on  me,  Vicky.' 

'And  you  mustn't  call  me  Vicky,'  said  Victoria. 
*I  don't  say  I  mind,  but  it  isn't  the  thing.  If  any- 
body heard  you  I  don't  know  what  they'd  think.' 

'  Who  cares ! '  said  Jack  in  his  most  dare  devil 
style,  putting  his  hand  on  the  back  of  hers  and 
stroking  it  softly.  Victoria  snatched  her  hand  away 
and  went  to  the  window,  where  she  seemed  absorbed 
in  the  contemplation  of  the  evergi-eens.  Jack  looked 
a  little  nonplussed.  He  was  an  attractive  youth  and 
looked  about  twenty.     He  had  the  fresh  complexion 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  53 

and  blue  eyes  of  his  father  but  differed  from  him  by 
a  measure  of  delicacy.  His  tall  body  was  a  little 
bent ;  his  face  was  all  pinks  and  whites  set  off  by  the 
blackness  of  his  straight  hair.  He  well  deserved  his 
school  nickname  of  Kathleen  Mavourneen.  His  long 
thin  hands,  which  would  have  been  aristocratic  but 
for  the  slight  thickness  of  the  joints,  branded  him  a 
poet.     He  was  not  happy  in  the  cement  business. 

Jack  stepped  up  to  the  window.  '  Sorry,'  he  said, 
as  humbly  as  possible.     Victoria  did  not  move. 

*  Won't  never  do  it  again,'  he  said,  pouting  like  a 
scolded  child. 

*  It's  no  good,'  answered  Victoria,  *  I'm  not  going  to 
make  it  up.' 

*  I  shall  go  and  drown  myself  in  the  Regent  Canal,' 
said  Jack  dolefully. 

'  I'd  rather  you  went  for  a  walk  along  the  banks,* 
said  Victoria. 

*  I  wiU  if  you'll  come  too,'  answered  Jack. 

'No,  I'm  not  going  out.  I've  got  a  headache. 
Look  here,  I'll  forgive  you  on  condition  that  you 
go  out  now  and  if  you'll  do  that  perhaps  you  can 
come  with  your  mother  and  me  to  the  Zoo  this 
afternoon,' 

*A11  right  then,'  grumbled  the  culprit,  *  you're 
rather  hard  on  me.  Always  knew  you  didn't  like 
me.     Sony.' 

Victoria  looked  out  again,  A  minute  later  Jack 
came  out  of  the  house  and,  pausing  before  the  window, 
signed  to  her  to  lift  up  the  sash, 

*  What  do  you  want  now  ?  '  asked  Victoria,  thrusting 
her  head  out. 

*  It's  a  bargain  about  the  Zoo,  isn't  it  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  of  course  it  is,  siUy  boy.  I've  got  several 
children's  tickets.' 

Jack  made  a  wry  face,  but  walked  away  with  a 
queer  little  feeling  of  exultation.  *  Silly  boy.'  She 
had  called  him  'silly  boy.'     Victoria  watched  him 


54  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

go  with  some  perplexity.  The  young  man  was 
rather  a  problem.  Not  only  did  his  pretty  face  and 
gentle  ways  appeal  to  her  in  themselves,  but  he  had 
told  her  something  of  his  thoughts  and  they  did  not 
run  on  cement.  His  father  had  thrust  him  into  his 
business  as  men  of  his  type  naturally  force  their  sons 
into  their  own  avocation  whatever  it  be.  Victoria 
knew  that  he  was  not  happy  and  was  sorry  for  him  ; 
how  could  she  help  feeling  sorry  for  this  lonely  youth 
who  had  once  printed  a  rondeau  in  the  Westminster 
Gazette. 

Jack  had  taken  to  her  at  once.  All  that  was 
delicate  and  feminine  in  him  called  out  to  her  square 
chin  and  steady  eyes.  Often  she  had  seen  him  look 
hungrily  at  her  strong  hands  where  bone  and  muscle 
plainly  showed.  But,  in  his  wistful  way,  Jack  had 
begun  to  embarrass  her.  He  was  making  love  to  her 
in  a  sense,  sometimes  sportively,  sometimes  plaintively, 
and  he  was  difficult  to  resist. 

Victoria  saw  quite  well  that  trouble  must  ensue. 
She  would  not  allow  the  boy  to  fall  in  love  with  her 
when  all  she  could  offer  was  an  almost  motherly 
affection.  Besides,  they  could  not  marry;  it  would 
be  absurd.  She  was  puzzled  as  to  what  to  do. 
Everything  tended  to  complicate  the  situation  for 
her.  She  had  once  been  to  the  theatre  with  Jack 
and  remembered  with  anxiety  how  his  arm  had  rested 
against  hers  in  the  cab  and  how,  when  he  leaned 
over  towards  her  to  speak,  she  had  felt  him  slowly 
inhaling  the  scents  of  her  hair. 

She  had  promised  herself  that  Jack  should  be 
snubbed.  Arid  now  he  played  pranks  on  her.  It 
must  end  in  their  being  caught  in  an  ambiguous 
attitude  and  then  she  would  be  blamed.  She  might 
tell  Mrs  Holt,  but  then  what  would  be  her  position  in 
the  household?  Jack  would  sulk  and  Mrs  Holt 
would  watch  them  suspiciously  until  the  situation 
became  intolerable  and  she  had  to  leave.     Leave! 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  55 

no,  no,  she  couldn't  do  that.  With  sudden  vividness 
Victoria  pictured  the  search  for  work,  the  silence  of 
Portsea  Place,  the  Rialto-like  archway,  Mrs  Bell,  and 
the  cold,  the  loneliness.  Events  must  take  their 
course. 

Like  the  rasp  of  a  corncrake  she  heard  the  wheels 
of  the  barouche  on  the  gravel.  Mrs  Holt  had  returned 
from  the  discourse  on  the  personal  devil. 


CHAPTER  Vm 

'  Thomas,'  said  Mrs  Holt  with  some  hesitation. 
'  Yes,'  said  Mr  Holt.     '  What  is  it  ? ' 

*  Oh !  nothing,'  said  Mrs  Holt,  '  Just  a  queer  idea. 
Nothing  worth  talking  about.' 

'  Well,  come  again  when  it  is  worth  talking  about,' 
growled  Mr  Holt,  relapsing  into  his  newspaper. 

*0f  course  there's  nothing  in  it,'  remarked  Mrs 
Holt  pertinaciously. 

'Notliing  in  what?'  her  husband  burst  forth. 
*  What  do  you  mean,  Maria?  Have  you  got  anything 
to  say  or  not  ?    If  you  have,  let's  have  it  out.' 

*  I  was  only  going  to  say  that  Jack  ...  of  course 
I  don't  think  that  Victoria  sees  it,  but  you  understand 
he's  a  very  young  man,  but  I  don't  blame  her,  he's 
such  a  funny  boy,'  said  Mrs  Holt  lucidly. 

*  Good  heavens,  Maria,'  cried  her  husband,  '  do  you 
want  me  to  smash  something  ?  ' 

*  How  you  do  go  on,'  remarked  Maria  placidly. 
'  What  I  meant  to  say  is  that  don't  you  think  Jack's 
rather  too  attentive  to  Victoria  ?  ' 

Mr  Holt  dropped  his  paper  suddenly.  *  Attentive  ? ' 
he  growled,  'haven't  noticed  it.' 

*  Oh !  you  men  never  notice  things,'  replied  Mrs 
Holt  with  conscious  superiority.  '  Don't  say  I  didn't 
warn  you,  that's  all.' 

'  Now  look  here,  Maria,'  said  Mr  Holt,  his  blue 
eyes  darkening  visibly,  *I  don't  want  any  more  of 
this  tittle  tattle.  You  can  keep  it  for  the  next  P.S.A. 
I  pan  tell  you  that  if  the  young  cub  is  "  attentive  "  to 

5* 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  57 

Mrs  Fulton,  well,  so  much  the  better :  it'll  teach  him 
something  worth  knowing  if  he  finds  out  that  there's 
somebody  else  in  the  world  who's  worth  doing  some- 
thing for  beyond  his  precious  self.' 

*  Very  well,  very  well,'  purred  Mrs  Holt.  *If  you 
take  it  like  that,  I  don't  mind,  Thomas.  Don't  say 
I  didn't  warn  you  if  anything  happens.     That's  all.' 

Mr  Holt  got  up  from  the  leather  chair  and  left  the 
room.  There  were  moments  when  his  wife  roused  in 
him  the  fury  that  filled  him  when  once,  in  his  young 
days,  he  had  dropped  steel  bolts  into  the  cement 
grinders  to  gratify  a  grudge  against  an  employer. 
The  temper  that  had  made  him  rejoice  over  the  sharp 
cracks  speaking  of  smashed  axles  was  in  him  still. 
He  had  got  above  the  social  stratum  where  husbands 
beat  their  wives,  but  innuendoes  and  semi-secrets 
goaded  him  almost  to  paroxysm. 

Mrs  Holt  heard  the  door  slam  and  coolly  took  up 
her  work.  She  was  engaged  in  the  congenial  task 
of  disfiguring  a  piece  of  Morris  chintz.  She  had 
decided  that  the  little  bag  given  her  by  an  aesthetic 
friend  was  too  flat  and  she  was  busily  employed  in 
embroidering  the  '  eyebright '  pattern,  with  coloured 
wool  in  the  most  approved  early  Victorian  manner. 
*  At  any  rate,'  she  thought,  '  Thomas  has  got  the  idea 
in  his  head,' 

Mrs  Holt  had  not  arrived  at  her  determination  to 
awaken  her  husband's  suspicions  without  much 
thought.  She  had  begun  to  realise  that  '  something 
was  wrong'  one  Sunday  afternoon  at  the  Zoo.  She 
had  taken  Jack  and  Victoria  in  the  barouche,  putting 
down  to  a  fit  of  filial  affection  the  readiness  of  Jack 
to  join  them.  She  had  availed  herself  of  the  oppor- 
tunity to  drive  round  the  Circle  ;  so  as  to  show  off 
her  adored  son  to  the  Bramleys,  who  were  there  in 
their  electric,  to  the  Wilsons,  who  were  worth 
quite  fifty  thousand  a  year,  to  the  Wellensteins  too, 
"Vrho    seemed    to    do    sq   wonderfully    well    on    the 


58  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Stock    Exchange.    Jack    had  taken  it  very  nicely 
indeed. 

All  the  afternoon  Jack  had  remained  with  them ; 
he  had  bought  animal  food,  found  a  fellow  to  take 
them  into  the  pavilion,  and  even  driven  home  with 
them.  It  was  when  he  helped  his  charges  into  the 
carriage  that  Mrs  Holt  had  noticed  something.  He 
first  handed  his  mother  in  and  then  Victoria.  Mrs 
Holt  had  seen  him  put  his  hand  under  Victoria's 
forearm,  which  was  quite  ordinary,  but  she  had  also 
seen  him  hold  her  in  so  doing  by  the  joint  of  her 
short  sleeve  and  long  glove  where  a  strip  of  white 
skin  showed  and  slip  two  fingers  under  the  glove. 
This  was  not  so  ordinary  and  Mrs  Holt  began  to 
think. 

When  a  Rawsley  dame  begins  to  think  of  things 
such  as  these,  her  conscience  invariably  demands  of 
her  that  she  should  know  more.  Mrs  Holt  therefore 
said  nothing,  but  kept  a  watchful  eye  on  the  couple. 
She  could  urge  nothing  against  Victoria.  Her  com- 
panion remained  the  cheerful  and  competent  friend 
of  the  early  days ;  she  was  no  more  amiable  to  Jack 
than  to  his  father :  she  talked  no  more  to  him  than  to 
the  rest  of  the  household ;  she  did  not  even  look  at 
him  much.  But  Jack  was  always  about  her ;  his 
eyes  followed  her  round  the  room,  playing  with  every 
one  of  her  movements.  Whenever  she  smiled  his 
lips  fluttered  in  response. 

Mrs  Holt  passed  slowly  through  the  tragic  stages 
that  a  mother  goes  through  when  her  son  loves.  She 
was  not  very  anxious  as  to  the  results  of  the  affair, 
for  she  knew  Jack,  though  she  loved  him.  She  knew 
that  his  purpose  was  never  strong.  Also  she  trusted 
Victoria.  But,  every  day  and  inevitably,  the  terrible 
jealousy  that  invades  a  mother's  soul  crept  further 
into  hers.  He  was  her  son  and  he  was  wavering 
from  an  allegiance  the  pangs  of  childbirth  had  entitled 
her  to. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  59 

Mrs  Holt  loved  her  son,  and,  like  most  of  those  who 
love,  would  torture  the  being  that  was  all  in  all  for 
her.  She  would  have  crushed  his  thoughts  if  she  had 
felt  able  to  do  so,  so  as  to  make  him  more  malleable  ; 
she  rejoiced  to  see  him  safely  anchored  to  the  cement 
business,  where  nothing  could  distract  him ;  she 
even  rejoiced  over  his  weakness,  for  she  enjoyed  the 
privilege  of  giving  him  strength.  She  would  have 
ground  to  powder  his  ambitions,  so  that  he  might  be 
more  fully  her  son,  hers,  hers  only. 

The  stepping  in  of  the  other  woman,  remote  and 
subtle  as  it  was,  was  a  terrible  thing.  She  felt  it 
from  afar  as  the  Arabian  steed  hears  the  coming 
simoon  moaning  beyond  the  desert.  With  terrible 
lucidity  she  had  seen  everything  that  passed  for  a 
month  after  that  fatal  day  at  the  Zoo,  when  Jack 
touched  Victoria's  arm.  She  saw  his  looks,  stolen 
from  his  mother's  face,  heard  the  softness  of  his  voice 
which  was  often  sharp  for  her.  Like  gall,  his  little 
attentions,  the  quick  turn  of  his  face,  a  flush  some- 
times, entered  into  and  poisoned  her  soul.  He  was 
her  son  ;  and,  with  all  the  ruthless,  entirely  animal 
cruelty  of  the  mother,  she  had  begun  to  swear  to 
herself  that  he  should  be  hers  and  hers  only,  and  that 
she  would  hug  him  in  her  arms,  aye,  hug  him  to 
death  if  need  be,  if  only  in  her  arms  he  died. 

Savagely  selfish  as  a  good  mother,  however,  Mrs 
Holt  remembered  that  she  must  go  slowly,  collect  her 
evidence,  allow  the  fruit  to  ripen  before  she  plucked 
it.  Thus  she  retained  her  outward  kindnesses  for 
Victoria,  spoke  her  fair,  threw  her  even  into  frequent 
contact  with  her  son.  And  every  day  she  tortured 
herself  with  all  the  tiny  signs  that  radiate  from  a 
lover's  face  like  aerolites  from  the  blazing  tail  of 
a  comet.  Now  her  case  was  complete.  She  had  seen 
Jack  lean  over  Victoria  while  she  was  on  her  knees 
dieting  some  books,  and  let  his  hand  dwell  on  hers. 
She  had  seen  his  face  all  alight,  his  mouth  a  little 


6o  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

open,  breathing  in  the  fragrance  of  this  woman,  the 
intruder.  And  the  iron  had  entered  into  the  motlier's 
heart  so  sharply  that  she  had  to  hurry  away  unseen 
for  fear  she  should  cry  out. 

Mrs  Holt  dropped  her  little  work  bag.  She 
wondered  whether  her  husband  would  see.  Would 
she  have  to  worry  him  placidly  for  months  as  she 
usually  had  to  when  she  wanted  her  own  way  ?  Or 
would  he  understand  and  side  with  her?  She  did 
not  know  that  women  are  intuitive,  for  she  knew 
nothing  either  of  women  or  men,  but  she  felt  perfectly 
certain  that  she  was  cleverer  than  Thomas  Holt.  If 
he  would  not  see,  then  she  would  have  to  show  him, 
even  if  she  had  to  plot  for  her  son's  sake. 

The  door  opened  suddenly.  Thomas  Holt  entered. 
His  face  was  perturbed,  his  jaw  setting  grimly 
between  the  two  deep  folds  in  his  cheeks.  That  was 
the  face  of  his  bad  days. 

*  Well,  Thomas  ?  '  ventured  his  wife  hesitatingly. 
'You  were  right,  Maria,'   answered  Holt  after  a 

pause.     '  Jack's  a  bigger  fool  than  I  thought  him.' 

'  Ah ! '  said  Mrs  Holt  with  meaning,  her  heart 
beating  a  sharp  tatoo. 

*  I  was  standing  on  the  first  landing,'  Holt  went  on. 
*  I  saw  them  at  the  door  of  the  smoke-room.  He 
asked  her  for  a  flower  from  her  dress ;  she  wouldn't 
give  it  him;  he  reached  over  and  pulled  one  away.' 

'  Yes  ? '  said  Mrs  Holt,  everything  in  her  quivering. 

*  Put  his  arm  round  her,  though  she  pushed  him 
off,  and  kissed  her.' 

Mrs  Holt  clasped  her  hands  together.  A  sharp 
pang  had  shot  through  her.  *  What  are  you  going 
to  do  ? '  she  asked. 

*  Do  ? '  said  Holt.  '  Sack  her  of  course.  Send  him 
up  to  Rawsley.     Damn  the  yoimg  fool.* 


CHAPTER  IX 

Breakfast  is  so  proverbially  dismal,  that  dismalness 
becomes  good  form ;  humanity  feels  silent  and 
liverish,  so  it  grudges  Providence  its  due,  for  it 
cannot  return  thanks  for  the  precocious  blessings  of 
the  day.  Such  was  breakfast  at  Finchley  Road,  and 
Victoria  would  not  have  noticed  it  on  that  particular 
morning  had  the  silence  not  somehow  been  eloquent. 
She  could  feel,  if  not  see  storm  clouds  on  the  horizon. 

Mr  Holt  sat  over  his  eggs  and  bacon,  eating  quickly 
with  both  hands,  every  now  and  then  soiling  tlie 
napkin  tightly  tucked  into  the  front  of  his  low 
collar.  There  was  nothing  abnormal  in  this,  except 
perhaps  that  he  kept  his  eyes  more  closely  glued 
than  usual  to  the  table  cloth ;  moreover,  he  had  not 
unfolded  the  paper.  Therefore  he  had  not  looked  up 
the  prices  of  Industrials.  This  was  singular.  Mrs 
Holt  never  said  much  at  breakfast,  in  deference  to 
her  husband,  but  this  morning  her  silence  was  some- 
what ostentatious.  She  handed  Victoria  her  tea. 
Victoria  passed  her  the  toast  and  hardly  heard  her 
'thank  you.' 

Jack  sat  more  abstracted  than  ever.  He  was 
feeling  very  uncomfortable.  He  wavered  between  the 
severe  talking  to  he  had  received  from  Victoria  tlie 
previous  afternoon  and  the  sulkiness  of  his  parents. 
Of  course  he  was  feeling  depressed,  but  he  could  not 
tell  why.  Victoria's  mere  nod  of  acceptance  when  he 
ofEered  her  the  salt,  and  his  mother's  curt  refusal  of 
the  pepper  did  not  contribute  to  make  him  easier  in 

6i 


62  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

his  mind.  Mrs  Holt  cleared  her  tliroat :  '  Blowing 
up  for  rain,  Thomas,'  she  said.  Mr  Holt  did  not 
move  a  muscle.  He  helped  himself  to  marmalade. 
Stolid  silence  once  more  reigned  over  the  breakfast 
table.  Jack  stole  a  sidelong  glance  at  Victoria.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  hands  crossed  before  her. 
Jack's  eyes  dwelled  for  a  moment  on  their  shapely 
strength,  then  upon  the  firm  white  nape  of  her  bent 
neck.  An  insane  desire  possessed  him  to  jump  up, 
seize  her  in  his  arms,  crush  his  lips  into  that 
spot  where  the  dark  tendrils  of  her  hair  began. 
He  repressed  it,  and  considered  the  grandfather's 
clock  which  had  once  ticked  in  a  peasant  Holt's 
kitchen.  To-day  it  ticked  with  almost  horrible 
deliberation. 

Jack  found  that  he  had  no  appetite.  Forebodings 
were  at  work  with  him.  Perhaps  Vic  had  told.  Of 
course  not,  she  couldn't  be  such  a  fool.  What  a  beastly 
room  it  was !  Sideboard  must  weigh  a  ton.  Ajid 
those  red  curtains  !  awful,  simply  awful.  Good  God, 
why  couldn't  he  get  out  of  the  damned  place  and 
take  Vic  with  him.  Couldn't  do  that  yet  of  course, 
but  couldn't  stick  it  much  longer.  He'd  be  off  to  the 
City  now.  Simply  awful  here.  Jack  rose  to  his  feet 
suddenly,  so  suddenly  that  his  chair  tilted  and  fell 
over. 

Mrs  Holt  looked  up.  *  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so 
noisy,  Jack,'  she  said. 

*  Sorry,  mater,'  said  Jack,  going  round  to  her  and 
bending  down  to  kiss  her,  '  I'm  off.' 

'  You're  in  a  fine  hurry,'  remarked  Mr  Holt  grimly, 
looking  up  and  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

'  Left  some  work  over,'  said  Jack,  in  a  curt  manner, 
making  for  the  door. 

'  Hem !  you've  got  work  on  the  brain,'  retorted  his 
father  in  his  most  sardonic  tone. 

Jack  opened  the  door  without  a  word. 

*  One  -  linute,  Jack,'  said  Mrs  Holt  placidly,  *  you 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  63 

needn't  go  yet,  your  father  and  I  have  something  to 
say  to  you.' 

Jack  stood  rooted  to  the  ground.  His  knees  almost 
gave  way  "beneath  him.  It,  it,  it  was  it.  They  knew. 
Victoria's  face,  the  profile  of  which  he  could  see 
outlined  like  a  plaster  cast  against  the  red  wall  paper 
did  not  help  him.  Her  face  had  set,  rigid  like  a 
mask.  Now  she  knew  why  the  previous  evening  had 
gone  by  in  silence.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  a  strange 
numb  feeling  creeping  all  over  her. 

'  Don't  go,  Mrs  Fulton,'  said  Mr  Holt  sharply,  '  this 
concerns  you.* 

For  some  seconds  the  party  remained  silent.  Mr 
and  Mrs  Holt  had  not  moved  from  the  table.  Jack  and 
Victoria  stood  right  and  left,  like  prisoners  at  the  bar. 

'  Victoria,'  said  Mrs  Holt,  *  I'm  very  sorry  to  have 
to  say  it,  but  I'm  afraid  you  know  what  I'm  going  to 
tell  you.  Of  course  I  don't  say  I  blame  you.  It's 
quite  natural  at  your  age  and  all  that.'  She  stopped, 
for  a  flush  was  rising  in  Victoria's  face,  the  cheek- 
bones showing  two  little  red  patches.  Mr  Holt  had 
clasped  his  hands  together  and  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
on  Victoria's  with  unnatural  intensity. 

'  You  see,  Victoria,'  resumed  Mrs  Holt,  '  it's  always 
diflicult  when  there's  a  young  man  in  the  house  ;  of 
course  I  make  allowances,  but,  really,  you  see  it's  so 
complicated  and  things  get  so  annoying.  You  know 
what  people  are  .  .  .' 

'That'll  do,  Maria,'  snarled  Mr  Holt,  jumping  to 
his  feet.  '  If  you  don't  know  what  you  have  to  say, 
I  do.  Look  here,  Mrs  Fulton.  Last  night  I  saw 
Jack  kissing  you.  I  know  perfectly  well  you  didn't 
encourage  him.  You'd  know  better.  However,  there 
it  is.  I  don't  pretend  I  like  what  I've  got  to  do,  but 
this  must  be  stopped.  I  can't  have  philandering 
going  on  here.  You,  Jack,  you're  going  back  to  the 
works  at  Rawsley  and  don't  let  me  see  anything  of 
you  this  side  of  the  next  thiee  months.    As  for  you, 


64  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Mrs  Fulton,  I'm  sorry,  but  Mrs  Holt  will  have  to  find 
another  companion.  I  know  it's  hard  on  you  to  ask 
you  to  leave  without  notice,  but  I  propose  to  give  you 
an  indemnity  of  twenty  pounds.  I  should  like  to  keep 
you  here,  but  you  see  that  after  what  has  happened 
it's  impossible.     I  suppose  you  agree  to  that  ?  ' 

Victoria  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  her  hands  tightly 
clenched.  She  knew  Holt's  short  ways,  but  the 
manner  of  the  dismissal  was  brutal.  Everything 
seemed  to  revolve  round  her,  she  recovered  herself 
with  difficulty. 

'Yes,'  she  said  at  length,  'you're  quite  right.' 

Jack  had  not  moved.  His  hands  were  nervously 
playing  with  his  watch  chain.  Victoria,  in  the  midst 
of  her  trouble,  remembered  Edward's  familiar  gesture. 
They  were  alike  in  a  way,  these  two  tall  weedy  men, 
both  irresolute  and  undeveloped. 

'  Very  well  then,'  continued  Holt ;  '  perhaps  you'll 
make  your  arrangements  at  once.  Here  is  the  cheque.' 
He  held  out  a  shp  of  blue  paper. 

Victoria  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  dully.  Then 
revolt  surged  inside  her.  '  I  don't  want  yom-  indemnity,' 
she  said  coldly,  '  you  merely  owe  me  a  month's  wages 
in  lieu  of  notice.* 

The  shadow  of  a  smile  crept  into  Holt's  face.  The 
semi-legal,  semi-commercial  phrase  pleased  him. 

Mrs  Holt  rose  from  the  table  and  went  to  Victoria. 
'  I'm  so  sorry,'  she  said,  speaking  more  gently  than  she 
had  ever  done.  '  You  must  take  it.  Things  are  so  hard.' 

*  Oh,  but  I  say,  dad  .  .  .'  broke  in  Jack. 

'  That  will  do,  do  you  hear  me,  sir? '  thundered  the 
father  violently,  bringing  down  his  fist  on  the  table. 
'  I'm  not  asking  you  for  your  opinion  ?  You  can  stay 
and  look  at  your  work  but  you  just  keep  a  silent 
tongue  in  your  head.     D'youhear?' 

Jack  stood  cowed  and  dumb. 

'  There's  nothing  more  to  say,  is  there  ? '  growled  Mr 
Holt,  placing  the  cheque  on  the  table  before  Victoria. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  65 

*  Not  mucli,'  said  Victoria.  '  I've  done  no  wrong. 
Oh  !  I'm  not  complaining.  But  I  begin  to  understand 
things.  Your  son  has  persecuted  me.  I  didn't  want 
his  attentions.  You  turn  me  out.  Of  course  it's  my 
fault,  I  know.' 

'  My  dear  Victoria,'  interposed  Mrs  Holt,  '  nobody 
says  it's  your  fault.     We  all  think  .  .  .' 

'  Indeed  ?  it's  not  my  fault,  but  you  turn  me  out.' 

Mrs  Holt  dropped  her  hands  helplessly. 

'  I  see  it  all  now,'  continued  Victoria.  '  You  don't 
blame  me,  but  you're  afraid  to  have  me  here.  So  long 
as  I  was  a  servant  all  was  well.  Now  I'm  a  woman 
and  you're  afraid  of  me.'  She  walked  up  and  down 
nervously.  *  Now  understand,  I've  never  encouraged 
your  son.  If  he  had  asked  me  to  marry  him  I  wouldn't 
have  done  it.'  A  look  of  pain  passed  over  Jack's  face 
but  aroused  no  pity  in  Victoria.     She  felt  frozen. 

'  Oh !  but  there  was  no  question  of  that,'  cried 
Mrs  Holt,  plaintively. 

*  No  doubt,'  said  Victoria  ruthlessly.  *  You  couldn't 
think  of  it.  Nobody  could  think  of  an  officer's  widow 
marrying  into  the  Rawsley  Works.  From  more  than 
one  point  of  view  it  would  be  impossible.  Very  good. 
I'll  leave  in  the  course  of  the  morning.  As  for  the 
cheque,  I'll  take  it.  As  you  say,  Mrs  Holt,  things  are 
hard.     I've  learned  that  and  I'm  still  learning.' 

Victoria  took  up  the  blue  slip.  The  flush  on  her 
face  subsided  somewhat.  She  picked  up  her  hand- 
kerchief, a  letter  from  Molly  and  a  small  anthology 
lying  on  the  dumb  waiter.  She  made  for  the  door, 
avoiding  Jack's  eyes.  She  felt  through  her  downcast 
lids  the  misery  of  his  looks.  A  softer  feeling  went 
through  her,  and  she  regretted  her  outburst.  As  she 
placed  her  hand  on  the  handle  she  turned  round  and 
faced  Mrs  Holt,  a  gentler  look  in  her  eyes. 

*  I'm  sorry  I  was  hasty,'  she  stammered.  '  I  was 
taken  by  surprise.     It  was  .  .  .  vulgar.' 

The  door  closed  softly  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  X 

\^ICT0RIA  went  Tip  to  her  room  and  locked  the  door 
behind  her.  She  sat  down  on  her  small  basket  trunk 
and  stared  out  of  the  dormer  window.  She  was  still 
all  of  a  tingle  ;  her  hands,  grasping  the  rough  edges 
of  the  trunk,  trembled  a  little.  Yet  she  felt,  amid  all 
her  perturbation,  the  strange  gladness  that  overcomes 
one  who  has  had  a  shock ;  the  contest  was  still 
upon  her. 

'  Yes,'  she  said  aloud,  '  I'm  free.  I'm  out  of  it.' 
She  hated  the  dullness  and  ugliness  which  the  Holts 
had  brought  with  them  from  the  Midlands.  The 
feeling  came  over  her  almost  like  a  spasm.  Through 
the  dormer  window  she  could  see  the  white  frontage 
of  the  house  opposite.  It  was  repellent  like  Mrs  Holt's 
personal  devil. 

The  feeling  of  exultation  suddenly  subsided  in 
Victoria's  breast.  She  realised  all  of  a  sudden  that 
she  was  once  more  adrift,  that  she  must  find  something 
to  do.  It  might  not  be  easy.  She  would  have  to  find 
lodgings.  The  archway  in  Portsea  Place  materialised 
crudely.  She  could  hear  the  landlady  from  84  detail- 
ing the  last  phase  of  rheumatics  to  the  slatternly  maid 
who  did  for  the  grocer.  Awful,  awful.  Perhaps  she'd 
never  find  another  berth.     What  should  she  do  ? 

Victoria  pulled  herself  together  with  a  start.  '  This 
wiU  never  do,'  she  said,  '  there's  lots  of  time  to  worry 
in.  Now  I  must  pack.'  She  got  up,  drew  the  trunk 
into  the  middle  of  the  room,  opened  it  and  took  out 
the  tray.     Then,  methodically,  as  she  had  been  taught 

66 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  67 

to  do  by  her  motlier,  she  piled  her  belongings  on  the 
bed.  In  a  few  minutes  it  was  filled  with  the  nonde- 
script possessions  of  the  nomad.  Skirts,  books,  boots, 
underclothing,  an  inkpot  even,  jostled  one  another  in 
dangerous  proximity.  Victoria  surveyed  the  heap 
with  some  dismay ;  all  her  troubles  had  vanished  in 
the  horror  that  comes  over  every  packer :  she  would 
never  get  it  all  in.  She  struggled  for  half  an  hour, 
putting  the  heavy  things  at  the  bottom,  piling  blouses 
on  the  tray,  cunningly  secreting  scent  bottles  in  shoes, 
stuffing  handkerchiefs  into  odd  comers.  Then  she 
dropped  the  tray  in,  closed  the  lid  and  sat  down  upon 
it.  The  box  creaked  a  little  and  gave  way.  Victoria 
locked  it  and  ^t  up  with  a  little  sigh  of  satisfaction. 
But  she  suddenly  saw  that  the  cupboard  door  was 
ajar  and  that  in  it  hung  her  best  dress  and  a 
feather  boa ;  on  the  floor  stood  the  packer's  plague, 
shoes.     It  was  quite  hopeless  to  try  and  get  them  in. 

Victoria  surveyed  the  difficulty  for  a  moment ;  then 
she  regretfully  decided  that  she  must  ask  Mrs  Holt 
for  a  cardboard  box,  for  her  hat-box  was  already 
mortgaged,  A  nuisance.  But  rather  no,  she  would 
ask  the  parlourmaid.  She  went  to  the  door  and  was 
surprised  to  find  it  locked.  She  turned  the  key 
slowly,  looking  round  at  the  cheerful  little  room, 
every  article  of  which  was  stupid  without  being 
offensive.  It  was  hard,  after  all,  to  leave  all  this, 
without  knowing  where  to  go. 

Victoria  opened  the  door  and  jumped  back  with 
a  little  cry.  Before  her  stood  Jack.  He  had  stolen 
up  silently  and  waited.  His  face  had  flushed  as  he 
saw  her ;  in  his  eyes  was  the  misery  of  a  sorrowful 
dog.  His  mouth,  always  a  little  open,  trembled  with 
excitement. 

*  Jack,'  cried  Victoria,  '  oh  !  what  do  you  want  ?  ' 

'I've  come  to  say  ...  oh!  Victoria  .  .  ,'  Jack 
broke  down  in  the  middle  of  his  carefully  prepared 
sentence. 


68  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  Oh !  go  away,'  said  Victoria  faintly,  putting  her 
hand  on  her  breast.  *  Do  go  away.  Can't  you  see 
I've  had  trouble  enough  this  morning  ?  ' 

'I'm  sorry,'  muttered  Jack  miserably.  'I've 
been  a  fool.  Vic,  I've  come  to  ask  you  if  you'll 
forgive  me.     It's  all  my  fault.     I  can't  bear  it.' 

'  Don't  talk  about  it,'  said  Victoria  becoming  rigid. 
*  That's  all  over.  Besides  you'll  have  forgotten  all 
about  it  to-morrow,'  she  added  cruelly. 

Jack  did  not  answer  directly,  though  he  was  stung. 
*Vic,'  he  said  with  hesitation,  'I  can't  bear  to  see 
you  go,  all  through  me.  Listen,  there's  something 
you  said  this  morning.     Did  you  mean  it  ? ' 

*  Mean  what  ?  '  asked  Victoria  uneasily. 

*  You  said,  if  I'd  asked  you  to  marry  me  you  .  .  . 
I  know  I  didn't,  but  you  know,  Vic,  I  wanted  you 
the  first  time  I  saw  you.  Oh  !  Vic,  won't  you  marry 
jne  now  ? ' 

Victoria  looked  at  him  incredulously.  His  hands 
were  still  trembling  with  excitement.  His  light  eyes 
stared  a  little.  His  long  thin  frame  was  swaying. 
'I'd  do  anything  for  you.  You  don't  know  what  I 
could  do.  I'd  work  for  you.  I'd  love  you  more  than 
you've  ever  been  loved.'  Jack  stopped  short ;  there 
was  a  hardness  that  frightened  him  in  the  set  of 
Victoria's  jaw. 

*  You  didn't  say  that  yesterday,'  she  answered. 

*  No,  I  was  mad.  But  I  wanted  to  all  along,  Vic. 
You're  the  only  woman  I  ever  loved.  I  don't  ask 
more  of  you  than  to  let  me  love  you.' 

Victoria  looked  at  him  more  gently.  His  likeness 
to  her  brother  grew  plainer  than  ever.  Kind  but 
hopelessly  inefficient.     Poor  boy,  he  meant  no  harm. 

'I'm  sorry.  Jack,'  she  said  after  a  pause,  'I  can't 
do  it.     *  You  know  you  couldn't  make  a  living  .  .  .' 

'  Oh,  I  could,  I  could  ! '  cried  Jack  clinging  at  the 
straw, '  if  I  had  you  to  work  for.  You  can't  tell  what 
it  means  for  me.' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  69 

'Perhaps  you  could  work,'  said  Victoria  witli  a 
wan  little  smile,  'but  I  can't  marry  you,  Jack,  you 
see.  I  like  you  very  much,  but  I'm  not  in  love  with 
you.     It  would't  be  fair.' 

Jack  looked  at  her  duUy.  He  had  not  dared  to 
expect  anything  but  defeat,  yet  defeat  crushed  him. 

'  There,  you  must  go  away  now,'  said  Victoria, '  I  must 
go  downstairs.  Let  me  pass  please.'  She  squeezed 
between  him  and  the  wall  and  made  for  the  stairs. 

'  No,  I  can't  let  you  go,'  said  Jack  hoarsely.  He 
seized  her  by  the  waist  and  bent  over  her.  Victoria 
looked  the  space  of  a  second  into  his  eyes  where  the 
tiny  veins  were  becoming  bloodshot.  She  pushed 
him  back  sharply  and,  wrenching  herself  away,  ran 
down  the  stairs.     He  did  not  follow  her. 

Victoria  looked  up  from  the  landing.  Jack  was 
standing  with  bent  head,  one  hand  on  the  banister. 
*  The  only  thing  you  can  do  for  me  is  to  go  away,' 
she  said  coldly.  'I  shall  come  up  again  in  five 
minutes  with  Effie.  I  suppose  you  will  not  want  us 
to  find  you  outside  my  bedroom  door.' 

She  went  downstairs.  When  she  came  up  again 
with  the  maid,  who  carried  a  large  brown  cardboard 
box,  Jack  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  she  followed  the 
butcher's  boy  who  was  dragging  her  box  down  the 
stairs,  dropping  it  with  successive  thuds  from  step 
to  step.  As  she  reached  the  hall,  while  she  was 
hesitating  as  to  whether  she  should  go  into  the 
dining-room  to  say  good-bye  to  Mrs  Holt,  the  door 
opened  and  Mrs  Holt  came  out.  The  two  women 
looked  at  one  another  for  the  space  of  a  second,  like 
duellists  about  to  cross  swords.  Then  Mrs  Holt  held 
out  her  hand. 

*  Good-bye,  Victoria,'  she  said,  'I'm  sorry  you're 
going.     I  know  you're  not  to  blame.' 

'  Thank  you,'  said  Victoria  icily.  *  I'm  sorry  also, 
but  it  couldn't  be  helped.' 


70  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Mrs  Holt  heaved  a  large  sigh.  *I  suppose  not,* 
she  said. 

Victoria  withdrew  her  hand  and  went  towards  the 
door.  The  butcher's  boy  had  already  taken  her  box 
down,  marking  the  whitened  steps  with  two  black 
lines. 

*  Shall  I  call  a  cab,  mum  ? '  he  asked. 

*  Yes  please,'  said  Victoria  dreamily. 

The  youth  went  down  the  drive,  his  heels  crimching 
into  the  gravel.  Victoria  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps, 
looking  out  at  the  shrubs,  one  or  two  of  which  showed 
pale  buds,  standing  sharp  like  jewels  on  the  black 
stems.     Mrs  Holt  came  up  behind  her  softly. 

*  I  hope  we  don't  part  in  anger,  Victoria,'  she  said 
guiltily. 

Victoria  looked  at  her  with  faint  amusement.  True, 
anger  is  a  cardinal  sin. 

*  Oh  !  no,  not  at  all,'  she  answered.  '  I  quite  under- 
stand.* 

'Don't  be  afraid  to  give  me  as  a  reference,'  said 
Mrs  Holt. 

'  Thank  you,'  said  Victoria.     *  I  shan't  forget.* 
'  And  if  ever  you're  in  trouble,  come  to  me.' 

*  You're  very  kind,'  said  Victoria.  Mrs  Holt  was 
kind,  she  felt.  She  understood  her  better  now. 
Much  of  her  sternness  oozed  out  of  her,  A  mother 
defending  her  son  knows  no  pity,  thought  Victoria ; 
perhaps  it's  wrong  to  resent  it.  It's  nature's  way  of 
keeping  the  young  alive. 

The  cab  came  trotting  up  the  drive  and  stopped. 
The  butcher's  boy  was  loading  the  trunk  upon  the 
roof.     Victoria  turned  to  Mrs  Holt  and  took  her  hand. 

*  Good-bye,'  she  said,  *  you've  been  very  good  to  me. 
Don't  think  I'm  so  bad  as  you  thought  me  this  morn- 
ing.    Your  son  has  just  asked  me  to  marry  him.' 

Mrs  Holt  dropped  Victoria's  hand;  her  face  was 
distorted  by  a  spasm. 

*  I  refused  him,'  said  Victoria. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  71 

She  stepped  into  the  cab  and  directed  the  cabman 
to  Portsea  Place.  As  they  turned  into  the  road  she 
looked  back.  At  the  head  of  the  steps  Mrs  Holt 
stood  frozen  and  amazed.  Victoria  almost  smiled 
but,  her  eyes  wandering  upwards,  she  saw,  at  her 
dormer  window,  Jack's  head  and  shoulders.  His 
blue  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  with  unutterable  long- 
ing. A  few  strands  of  hair  had  blown  down  upon  his 
forehead.  For  the  space  of  a  second  they  gazed  into 
each  other's  eyes.  Then  the  wall  blotted  him  out 
suddenly.  Victoria  sighed  softly  and  sank  back  upon 
the  seat  of  the  cab. 

At  the  moment  she  had  no  thought.  She  was  at 
such  a  point  as  one  may  be  who  has  turned  the  last 
page  of  the  first  volume  of  a  lengthy  book  :  the  next 
page  is  blank.  Nothing  remained  even  of  that  last 
look  in  which  Jack's  blue  eyes  had  pitifully  retold 
his  sorry  tale.  She  was  like  a  rope  which  has  parted 
with  many  groans  and  wrenchings  ;  broken  and  its 
strands  scattering,  its  ends  float  lazily  at  the  mercy 
of  the  waves,  preparing  to  sink.  She  was  going  more 
certainly  into  the  unknown  than  if  she  had  walked 
blindfold  into  the  darkest  night. 

The  horse  trotted  gently,  the  brakes  gritting  on  the 
wheels  as  it  picked  its  way  down  the  steep.  The 
fresh  air  of  April  drove  into  the  cab,  stinging  a  little 
and  yet  balmy  with  the  freshness  of  latent  spring. 
Victoria  sat  up,  clasped  her  hands  on  the  doors  and 
craned  out  to  see.  There  was  a  little  fever  in  her 
blood  again ;  the  spirit  of  adventure  was  raising  its 
head.  As  fitful  gleams  of  sunshine  lit  up  and  irradi- 
ated the  puddles  a  passionate  interest  in  the  life 
around  seemed  to  overpower  her.  She  looked  almost 
greedily  at  the  spire,  far  down  the  Wellington  Road, 
shining  white  like  molten  metal  with  almost  Italian 
brilliancy  against  a  sky  pale  as  shallow  water.  The 
light,  the  young  wind,  the  scents  of  earth  and  buds, 
the  men  and  women  who  walked  with  springy  step 


73  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

intent  on  no  business,  all  this,  and  even  the  horse  who 
seemed  to  toss  his  head  and  swish  his  tail  in  sheer 
glee,  told  her  that  the  world  was  singing  its  alleluia, 
for,  behold,  spring  was  born  unto  it  in  gladness, 
with  all  its  trappings  and  its  sxmiptuous  promise. 

Everything  was  beautiful ;  not  even  the  dreary  waste 
of  wall  which  conceals  Lords  from  the  vulgar,  nor  the 
thousand  tombs  of  the  churchyard  where  the  dead 
jostle  and  grab  land  from  one  another  were  without 
their  peculiar  charm.  It  was  not  until  the  cab  crossed 
the  Edgware  Road  that  Victoria  realised  with  a  start 
that,  though  the  world  was  born  again,  she  did  not 
share  its  good  fortune.  Edgware  Road  had  dragged 
her  down  to  the  old  level ;  a  horrible  familiarity,  half 
pleasurable,  half  fearful,  overwhelmed  her.  This 
street,  which  she  had  so  often  paced  carrying  a  heart 
that  grew  heavier  with  every  step,  had  never  led  her 
to  anything  but  loneliness,  to  the  cold  emptiness  of 
her  room.  Her  mood  had  changed.  She  saw  nothing 
now  but  tawdry  stationer's  shops,  meretricious 
jewellery  and,  worse  still,  the  sickening  plenty  of  its 
monster  stores  of  clothing  and  food.  The  road  had 
seized  her  and  was  carrying  her  away  towards  its 
summit,  where  the  hill  melts  into  the  skies  between 
the  houses  that  grow  lower  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see. 

Victoria  closed  her  eyes.  She  was  in  the  grip  once 
more ;  the  wheels  of  the  machine  were  not  moving 
yet  but  she  could  feel  the  vibration  as  it  got  up 
steam.  In  a  little  the  flywheel  would  slowly  revolve 
and  then  she  would  be  caught  and  ground  up.  Yes, 
ground  up,  cried  the  Edgware  Road,  like  thousands 
of  others  as  good  as  you,  gi'ound  into  little  bits  to 
make  roadmetal  of,  yes,  ground,  ground  fine. 

The  cab  stopped  suddenly.  Victoria  opened  her 
eyes.  Yes,  this  was  Portsea  Place.  She  got  out.  It 
had  not  changed.  The  curtains  of  the  house  opposite 
were  as  dirty  as  ever.  The  landlady  from  the  corner 
was  standing  just  under  the  archway,  dressed  as  usual 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  73 

in  an  expansive  pink  blonse  in  whicli  her  flowing 
contours  rose  and  fell.  She  interrupted  the  voluble 
comments  on  the  weather  which  she  was  addressing 
to  the  little  faded  colleague,  dressed  in  equally  faded 
black,  to  stare  at  the  newcomer. 

*  There  ain't  no  more  room  at  Bell's,'  she  remarked. 

*  She  is  very  fortunate,'  said  the  faded  little  woman. 
*  Dear  me,  dear  me.     It's  a  cruel  world.' 

'  Them  lidies'  maids  alius  ketches  on,'  said  the 
large  woman  savagely.  '  Tell  yer  wot,  though,  p'raps 
they  wouldn't  if  they  was  to  see  Bell's  kitching.  Oh, 
Lor' !     There  ain't  no  black-beetles.     I  don't  think.' 

The  little  faded  woman  looked  longingly  at  Victoria 
standing  on  the  steps.  A  loafer  sprung  from  thin  air 
as  is  the  way  of  his  kind  and  leant  against  the  area 
railings,  touching  his  cap  whenever  he  caught 
Victoria's  eye,  indicating  at  times  the  box  on  the  roof 
of  the  cab.  From  the  silent  house  came  a  noise  that 
grew  louder  and  louder  as  the  footsteps  drew  nearer 
the  door.  Victoria  recognised  the  familiar  shuflfle. 
Mrs  Bell  opened  the  door. 

*  Lor,  mum,'  she  cried,  'I'm  glad  to  see  you  again.' 
She  caught  sight  of  the  trunk.  '  Oh,  are  you  moving, 
mum? ' 

'  Yes,  Mrs  Bell,'  said  Victoria.  '  I'm  moving  and  I 
want  some  rooms.     Of  course  I  thought  of  you.' 

Mrs  Bell's  face  fell.  *  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,  mum.  The 
house  is  full.  If  you'd  come  last  week  I  had  the  first 
floor  back.'  She  seemed  genuinely  distressed.  She 
liked  her  quiet  lodger  and  to  turn  away  business  of 
any  kind  was  always  depressing. 

Victoria  felt  dashed.  She  remembered  Edward's 
consternation  on  discovering  the  change  in  Gower 
Street  and,  for  the  first  time,  sympathised. 

*  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  too,  Mrs  Bell.  I  shoxdd  like  to 
have  come  back  to  you.' 

'  Couldn't  you  wait  until  next  month,  mum  !  '  said 
Mrs  Bell,  reluctant  to  turn  her  away.    *  The  gentleman 


74  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

in  the  second  floor  front,  he's  going  away  to  Rhodesia. 
It's  your  old  room,  mum.' 

'I'm  afraid  not,'  said  Victoria  with  a  smile.  *In 
fact  I  must  find  lodgings  at  once.  Never  mind,  if  I 
don't  like  them  I'll  come  back  here.  But  can't  you 
recommend  somebody  ? ' 

Mrs  Bell  looked  right  and  left,  then  into  the  arch- 
way. The  little  faded  woman  had  disappeared.  The 
landlady  in  the  billowy  blouse  was  still  surveying  the 
scene.     Mrs  Bell  froze  her  with  a  single  look. 

*  No,  mum,  can't  say  I  know  of  anybody,  leastways 
not  here,'  she  said  slowly.  *  It's  a  nice  neighbourhood 
of  course,  but  the  houses  here,  they  look  all  right,  but 
oh,  mum,  you  should  see  their  kitchens !  Dirty  ain't 
the  word,  mum.  But  wait  a  bit,  mum,  if  you 
wouldn't  mind  that,  I've  got  a  sister  who's  got  a  very 
nice  room.  She  lives  in  Castle  Street,  mimi,  near 
Oxford  Circus.  It's  a  nice  neighbourhood,  of  course 
not  so  near  the  Park,'  added  Mrs  BeU  with  conscious 
superiority, 

'  I  don't  mind,  Mrs  BeU,'  said  Victoria.  '  I'm  not 
fashionable.' 

'  Oh,  mum,'  cried  Mrs  Bell,  endeavouring  to  imply 
together  the  superiority  of  Portsea  Place  and  the 
respectability  of  any  street  patronised  by  her  family, 
*  I'm  sure  you'll  like  it.     I'll  give  you  the  address.' 

In  a  few  minutes  Victoria  was  speeding  eastwards. 
Now  she  was  rooted  up  for  good.  She  was  leaving 
behind  her  Curran's  and  Mrs  Bell,  slender  links 
between  her  and  home  life,  links  still,  however.  The 
pageant  of  London  rolled  by  her,  heaving,  bursting 
with  rich  life.  The  sunshine  around  her  bade  her  be 
of  good  cheer.  Then  the  cab  turned  a  corner  and, 
with  the  suddenness  of  a  stage  effect,  it  carried  its 
burden  into  the  haunts  of  darkness  and  malodour. 


CHAPTER  XI 

'  Telegraph,  mtim,'  said  a  voice- 
Victoria  started  up  from  the  big  armcliair  with  a 
suddenness  that  ahnost  shot  her  out  of  it.  It  was  the 
brother  of  the  one  in  Portsea  Place  and  shared  its 
constitutional  objection  to  being  sat  upon.  It  was 
part  of  the  '  sweet '  which  Miss  Briggs  had  divided 
with  Mrs  Bell  when  their  grandmother  died. 

'  Thanks,  Miss  Briggs,'  said  Victoria.  '  By  the  way, 
I  don't  think  that  egg  is  quite  fresh.  And  why  does 
Hetty  put  the  armchair  in  front  of  the  cupboard  every 
day  so  that  I  can't  open  it  ? ' 

'  The  slut,  I  don't  see  there's  anything  the  matter 
with  it,'  remarked  Miss  Briggs,  simultaneously 
endorsing  the  complaint  against  Hetty  and  defend- 
ing her  own  marketing. 

*  Oh,  yes  there  is,  Miss  Briggs,'  snapped  Victoria 
with  a  sharpness  which  would  have  been  foreign  to 
her  some  months  before.  'Don't  let  it  happen  again 
or  I'll  do  my  own  catering.' 

Miss  Briggs  collapsed  on  the  spot.  The  profits  on 
the  three  and  sixpence  a  week  for  *  tea,  bread  and 
butter  and  anything  that's  going,'  formed  quite  a 
substantial  portion  of  her  budget. 

'  Oh,  I'm  sorry,  mum,'  she  said,  *  it's  Hetty  bought 
'em  this  week.     The  slut,  I'U  talk  to  her.' 

Victoria  took  no  notice  of  the  penitent  landlady 
and  opened  the  Telegraph.  She  absorbed  the  fact 
that  Consols  had  gone  up  an  eighth  and  that  con- 
tangoes  were  in    process   of    arrangement,  without 

IS 


76  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

interest  or  understanding.  She  was  thinking  of 
something  else.  Miss  Briggs  coughed  apologetically. 
Victoria  looked  up.  Miss  Briggs  reflectively  tied 
knots  in  her  apron  string.  She  was  a  tall,  lantern- 
jawed  woman  of  no  particular  age ;  old  looking  for 
thirty-five  perhaps  or  young  looking  for  fifty.  Her 
brown  hair,  plentifully  sprinkled  with  grey,  broke 
out  in  wisps  over  each  ear  and  at  the  back  of  the 
neck.  Her  perfectly  flat  chest  allowed  big  bags  of 
coarse  black  serge  to  hang  over  her  dirty  white 
apron.  Her  hands  played  mechanically  with  the 
strings,  while  her  water-coloured  eye  fixed  upon  the 
Telegraph. 

'You  shouldn't  read  that  paper,  mum,'  she  remarked. 

'  Why  not  ? '  asked  Victoria,  with  a  smile,  *  isn't  it 
a  good  one  ? ' 

*  Oh,  yes,  mum,  I  don't  say  that,'  said  Miss  Briggs 
with  the  respect  that  she  felt  for  the  buyers  of  penny 
papers.  *  There's  none  better.  Mine's  the  Daily  Mail 
of  course  and  just  a  peep  into  Reynolds  before  the 
young  gent  on  the  first  floor  front.  But  you  shouldn't 
have  it.     Tizer's  your  paper.' 

*  Tizer?^  said  Victoria  interrogatively. 

*  Morning  Advertiser,  mum;  that's  the  one  for 
advertisements. ' 

*  But  how  do  you  know  I  read  the  advertisements. 
Miss  Briggs? '  asked  Victoria  still  smiling. 

*  Oh,  mum,  excuse  the  liberty,'  said  Miss  Briggs  in 
great  trepidation.  'It's  the  only  sheet  I  don't  find 
when  I  comes  up  to  do  the  bed.  Tizer^s  the  one 
for  you,  mum;  I  had  a  young  lady  'ere,  once.  Got 
a  job  at  the  Inverness  Lounge,  she  did.  Married  a 
clergyman,  they  say.     He's  divorced  her  now.' 

'That's  an  encouraging  story,  Miss  Briggs,'  said 
Victoria  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye.  *  How  do  you 
know  I  want  to  be  a  barmaid,  though  ?  ' 

*  Oh,  one  has  to  be  what  one  can,  mum,'  said  Miss 
Briggs  sorrowfully.     '  Sure  enough,  it  ain't  all  honey 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  77 

and  it  ain't  all  jam  keeping  this  house.  The  bells, 
they  rings  all  day  and  it's  the  breakfast  that's  bad 
and  their  ain't  blankets  enough,  and  I  never  'ad  a 
scuttle  big  enough  to  please  'em  for  sixpence.  But 
you  ain't  doing  that,  mum,'  she  added  after  a  pause 
devoted  to  the  consideration  of  her  wrongs.  '  A  young 
lady  like  you,  she  ought  to  be  behind  the  bar.' 

Victoria  laughed  aloud.  '  Thanks  for  the  hint, 
Miss  Briggs,'  she  said,  'I'll  think  it  over.  To-day 
however,  I'm  going  to  try  my  luck  on  the  stage. 
What  do  you  think  of  that  ? ' 

'Going  on  tour?'  cried  Miss  Briggs  in  a  tone  of 
tense  anxiety. 

'  Well,  not  yet,'  said  Victoria  soothingly.  *  I'm 
going  to  see  an  agent.' 

'  Oh,  that's  aU  right,'  said  Miss  Briggs  with  ghoulish 
relief.  'Hope  yer'U  get  a  job,'  she  added  as  con- 
fidently as  a  man  offering  a  drink  to  a  teetotaller. 
At  that  moment  a  fearful  clattering  on  the  stairs 
announced  that  Hetty  and  the  pail  had  suddenly 
descended  to  the  lower  landing.  Liquid  noises 
followed.  Miss  Briggs  rushed  out.  Victoria  jumped 
up  and  slammed  her  door  on  the  chaotic  scene.  She 
returned  to  the  Telegraph.  The  last  six  weeks  in  the 
Castle  Street  lodging  house  had  taught  her  that  these 
were  happenings  quite  devoid  of  importance. 

Victoria  spread  out  the  Telegraph,  ignored  the 
foreign  news,  the  leaders  and  the  shocking  revelations 
as  to  the  Government's  Saharan  policy ;  she  dallied 
for  a  moment  over  '  gowns  for  debutantes,'  for  she 
was  a  true  woman,  and  passed  on  to  the  advertise- 
ments. She  was  getting  quite  experienced  as  a 
reader  and  could  sift  the  wheat  from  the  chaff  with 
some  accuracy.  She  knew  that  she  could  safely 
ignore  applications  for  lady  helps  in  '  small  families,' 
at  least  unless  she  was  willing  to  clean  boots  and 
blacklead  grates  for  five  shillings  a  week  and  meals 
when  an  opportunity  occurred  ;  her  last  revelation  as 


78  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

to  the  nature  of  a  post  of  housekeeper  to  an  elderly 
gentleman  who  had  retired  from  business  into  the 
quietude  of  Surbiton  had  not  been  edifying.  The 
*  Financial  and  Businesses '  column  left  her  colder 
than  she  had  been  when  she  left  Mrs  Holt  with  nearly 
thirty-seven  pounds.  Then  she  was  a  capitalist  and 
pondered  longingly  over  the  proposals  of  tobacconists, 
fancy  goods  firms,  and  stationers,  who  were  prepared 
to  guarantee  a  fortune  to  any  person  who  could 
muster  thirty  pounds.  Fortunately  Miss  Briggs  had 
undeceived  her.  In  her  variegated  experience,  she 
herself  had  surrendered  some  sixty  golden  sovereigns 
to  the  persuasive  owner  of  a  flourishing  newsagent's 
business.  After  a  few  weeks  of  vain  attempts  to 
induce  the  neighbourhood  to  indulge  in  the  news  of 
the  day,  she  had  been  glad  to  sell  her  stock  of  sweets 
for  eighteen  shillings,  and  to  take  half  a  crown  for  a 
hundred  penny  novelettes. 

Victoria  turned  to  the  '  Situations  Vacant.'  Their 
numbers  were  deceptive.  She  had  never  realised 
before  how  many  people  live  by  fitting  other  people 
for  work  they  cannot  get.  Two  thirds  of  the 
advertisements  offered  wonderful  opportunities  for 
sons  of  gentlemen  in  the  offices  of  architects  and 
engineers  on  payment  of  a  premium  ;  she  also  found 
she  could  become  a  lady  gardener  if  she  would  only 
follow  the  courses  in  some  dukery  and  meanwhile 
live  on  air ;  others  would  teach  her  shorthand,  type- 
writing or  the  art  of  the  secretary.  All  these  she 
now  calmly  skipped.  She  was  obviously  unfitted  to 
be  the  matron  of  an  asylum  for  the  feeble-minded. 
Such  experience  had  not  been  hers,  nor  had  she  the 
redoubtable  record  which  would  open  the  gates  of 
an  emporium.  An  illegible  hand  would  exclude  her 
from  the  City. 

'  No,'  thought  Victoria,  *  I'm  an  unskilled  labourer ; 
that's  what  I  am.'  She  wearily  skimmed  the  agencies  ; 
as  a  matter  of  habit  noted  the  demand  for  two  com- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  79 

panions  and  one  nursery  governess  and  pnt  the  paper 
aside.  There  was  not  nrncli  hope  in  any  of  these,  for 
one  was  for  Tiverton,  the  other  for  Cardiff,  which 
would  make  a  personal  interview  a  costly  business ; 
the  third,  discreetly  cloaked  by  an  initial,  suggested 
by  its  terseness  a  companionship  probably  undue  in 
its  intimacy.  The  last  six  weeks  had  opened  Victoria's 
eyes  to  the  unpleasant  aspects  of  life,  so  much  so  that 
she  wondered  whether  there  were  any  other.  She 
felt  now  that  London  was  waiting  for  her  outside, 
waiting  for  her  to  have  spent  her  last  copper,  when 
she  would  come  out  to  be  eaten  so  that  she  might  eat. 

Whatever  her  conceit  might  have  been  six  months 
before,  Victoria  had  lost  it  all.  She  could  do  nothing 
that  was  wanted  and  desired  everything  she  could 
aot  get.  She  had  tried  all  sources  and  found  them 
dry.  Commercialism,  philanthropy,  and  five  per 
cent,  philanthropy  had  failed  her.  What  can  you  do  ? 
was  their  cry.  And,  the  answer  being  'nothing,' 
their  retort  had  been  *  No  more  can  we.' 

Victoria  turned  over  in  her  mind  her  interview 
with  the  Honorary  Secretary  of  the  British  Women's 
Imperial  Self  Help  Association.  '  Of  course,'  said 
the  Secretary,  *  we  will  be  glad  to  register  you.  We 
need  some  references  and,  as  our  principle  is  to  foster 
the  independence  and  self-respect  of  those  whom  we 
endeavour  to  place  in  positions  such  as  may  befit 
their  social  status,  we  are  compelled  to  demand  a  fee 
of  five  shillings.' 

'  Oh,  self  help,  I  see,'  said  Victoria  sardonically, 
for  she  was  beginning  to  understand  the  world. 

'  Yes,'  replied  the  Honorary  Secretary,  oblivious  of 
the  sneer,  for  his  mind  was  cast  in  the  parliamentary 
mould,  '  by  adhering  to  our  principle  and  by  this 
means  only  can  we  hope  to  stem  the  tide  of  pauperism 
to  which  modern  socialistic  tendencies  are — are — 
spurring  the  masses.'  Victoria  had  paid  five  shillings 
for  this  inunortal  metaphor  and  within  a  week  had 


8o  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

received  an  invitation  to  attend  a  meeting  presided 
over  by  several  countesses. 

The  B.  W.  I.  S.  H.  A.,  (as  it  was  called  by  its 
intimates)  bad  induced  in  Victoria  suspicions  of 
societies  in  general.  She  had,  however,  applied  also 
to  the  Ladies'  Provider.  Its  name  left  one  in  doubt 
whether  it  provided  ladies  with  persons  or  whether 
it  provided  ladies  to  persons  who  might  not 
be  ladies.  The  Secretary  in  this  case,  was  not 
Honorary.  The  inwardness  of  this  did  not  appear  to 
Victoria ;  for  she  did  not  then  know  that  plain 
secretaries  are  generally  paid,  and  try  to  earn  their 
salary.  Their  interview  had,  however,  not  been  such 
as  to  convert  her  to  the  value  of  corporate  effort. 

The  Secretary  in  this  case  was  a  woman  of  forty, 
with  a  pink  face,  trim  grey  hair,  spectacles,  amorphous 
clothing,  capable  hands.  She  exhaled  an  atmosphere 
of  respectability,  and  the  faint  odour  of  almonds 
which  emanates  fi'om  those  women  who  eschew  scent 
in  favour  of  soap.  She  had  quietly  listened  to 
Victoria's  history,  making  every  now  and  then  a 
shorthand  note.  Then  she  had  coughed  gently  once 
or  twice.  Victoria  felt  as  in  the  presence  of  an 
examiner.     Was  she  going  to  get  a  pass? 

*  I  do  not  say  that  we  cannot  do  anything  for  you, 
Mrs  Fulton,'  she  said,  *but  we  have  so  many  cases 
similar  to  yours.' 

Victoria  had  bridled  a  little  at  this.  '  Cases '  was 
a  nasty  word. 

'I'm  not  particular,'  she  had  answered,  'I'd  be 
a  companion  any  day.' 

'I'm  sure  you'd  make  a  pleasant  one,'  said  the 
Secretary  graciously,  '  but  before  we  go  any  further, 
tell  me  how  it  was  you  left  your  last  place.  You 
were  in  the  ...  in  the  Finchley  Road,  was  it  not?' 
The  Secretary's  eyes  travelled  to  a  map  of  London 
where  Marylebone,  South  Paddington,  Kensington, 
Belgravia,  and  Mayfair,  were  blocked  out  in  blue. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  8i 

Victoria  had  hesitated,  then  fenced.  'Mrs  Holt 
will  give  me  a  good  character,'  she  faltered. 

'No  doubt,  no  doubt,'  replied  the  Secretary,  her 
eyes  growing  just  a  little  darker  behind  the  glasses. 
'  Yet,  you  see,  we  are  compelled  by  the  nature  of  our 
business  to  make  enquiries.  A  good  reference  is  a  very 
good  thing,  yet  people  are  a  little  careless  sometimes ; 
the  hearts  of  employers  are  often  rather  soft.' 

This  was  a  little  too  much  for  Victoria.  *  If  you 
want  to  know  the  truth,'  she  said  bluntly,  '  the  son  of 
the  house  persecuted  me  with  his  attentions,  and 
I  couldn't  bear  it.' 

The  Secretary  made  a  shorthand  note.  Then  she 
looked  at  Victoria's  flashing  eyes,  heightened  colour, 
thick  piled  hair. 

*  I  am  very  sorry,'  she  began  lamely.  .  .  . 

What  dreadful  things  women  are,  thought  Victoria, 
folding  up  the  Telegraph.  If  Christ  had  said :  Let 
her  who  hath  never  sinned.  .  .  the  woman  would  have 
been  stoned.  Victoria  got  up,  went  to  the  looking- 
glass  and  inspected  herself.  Yes,  she  was  very  pretty. 
She  was  prettier  than  she  had  ever  been  before. 
Her  skin  was  paler,  her  eyes  larger ;  her  thick  eye- 
brows almost  met  in  an  exquisite  gradation  of  short 
dark  hairs  over  the  bridge  of  the  nose.  She  watched 
her  breast  rise  and  faU  gently,  flashing  white  through 
the  black  lacework  of  her  blouse,  then  falling  away 
from  it,  tantalising  the  faint  sunshine  that  would  kiss 
it.  As  she  turned,  another  looking-glass  set  in  the 
lower  panels  of  a  small  cupboard  told  her  that  her 
feet  were  small  and  high  arched.  Her  openwork 
stockings  were  drawn  so  tight  that  the  skin  there  also 
gleamed  white. 

Victoria  took  from  the  table  a  dirty  visiting  card. 
It  bore  the  words  '  Louis  Carrel,  Musical  and 
Theatrical  Agent,  5  Soho  Place.'  She  had  come  by 
it  in  singular  manner.  Two  days  before,  as  she  left 
the  offices  of  the  '  Compleat  Governess  Agency '  after 


82  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

having  realised  tliat  she  could  not  qualify  in  either 
French,  German,  Music,  Poker  work  or  Swedish  drill, 
she  had  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  doorstep, 
surveying  the  dingy  court  where  they  were  con- 
cealed, the  dirty  panes  of  an  unlet  shop  opposite, 
the  strange  literature  flaunting  in  the  showcase  of 
some  publisher  of  esoterics.  A  woman  had  come  up 
to  her,  rising  like  the  loafers  from  the  flagstones. 
She  had  realised  her  as  between  ages  and  between 
colours.  Then  the  woman  had  disappeared  as 
suddenly  as  she  came  without  having  spoken,  leaving 
in  Victoria's  hand  the  little  square  of  pasteboard. 

Victoria  looked  at  it  meditatively.  She  would 
have  shrunk  from  the  idea  of  the  stage  a  year  before, 
when  the  tradition  of  Lympton  was  still  upon  her. 
But  times  had  changed ;  a  simple  philosophy  was 
growing  in  her ;  what  did  anything  matter  ?  would 
it  not  be  all  the  same  in  a  hundred  years?  The 
discovery  of  this  philosophy  did  not  strike  her  as 
commonplace.  There  are  but  few  who  know  that 
this  is  the  philosophy  of  the  world. 

Victoria  put  down  the  card  and  began  to  dress. 
She  removed  the  old  black  skirt  and  ragged  lace 
blouse  and,  as  she  stood  before  the  glass  in  her  short 
petticoat,  patting  her  hair  and  setting  a  comb,  she 
reflected  with  satisfaction  that  her  arms  were  shapely 
and  white.  She  looked  almost  lovingly  at  the  long 
thin  dark  hairs,  fine  as  silk,  that  streaked  her  fore- 
arms ;  she  kissed  them  gently,  moved  to  self-adoration 
by  the  sweet  scent  of  femininity  that  rose  from  her. 

She  tore  herself  away  from  her  self-worship  and 
quickly  began  to  dress.  She  put  on  a  light  skirt  in 
Bcrge,  striped  black  and  white,  threading  her  head 
tlirough  it  with  great  care  for  fear  she  should  damage 
her  fringe  net.  She  drew  on  a  white  blouse,  simple 
enough  though  cheap.  As  it  fastened  along  the  side 
she  did  not  have  to  call  in  Miss  Briggs ;  which  was 
fortunate,  as  this  was  the  time  when  Miss  Briggs 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  83 

carried  coals.  Victoria  wriggled  for  a  moment  to 
settle  the  uncomfortable  boning  of  the  neck  and, 
having  buckled  and  belted  the  skirt  over  the  blouse, 
completed  her  toilet  with  her  little  black  and  white 
jacket  to  match  the  skirt.  A  tiny  black  silk  cravat 
from  her  neck  was  discarded,  as  she  found  that  the 
fashionable  ruffle,  emerging  from  the  closed  coat, 
produced  an  e^et  mousquetaire.  Lastly  she  put  on 
her  hat ;  a  lapse  from  the  fashions  perhaps,  but  a 
lovable,  flat,  almost  crownless,  dead  black,  save 
a  vertical  group  of  feathers. 

Victoria  drew  her  veil  down,  regretting  the  thick- 
ness of  the  spots,  pushed  it  up  to  repair  with  a  dab 
of  powder  the  ravage  of  a  pod  on  the  tip  of  her  nose. 
She  took  up  her  parasol  and  white  gloves,  a  glow  of 
excitement  already  creeping  over  her  as  she  realised 
how  cleverly  she  must  have  caught  the  spirit  of  the 
profession  to  look  the  actress  to  the  life  and  yet 
remain  in  the  note  of  the  demure  widow. 

Soho  Place  is  neither  one  of  the  '  good '  streets  nor 
one  of  the  'bad.'  The  police  do  not  pace  it  in  twos 
and  threes  in  broad  daylight,  yet  they  hardly  like  to 
venture  into  it  singly  by  night.  On  one  side  it 
ends  in  a  square ;  on  the  other  it  turns  off  into  an 
unobtrusive  side  street,  the  reputation  of  which  varies 
yard  by  yard  according  to  the  distance  from  the  main 
roads.  It  is  dirty,  dingy ;  yet  not  without  dignity, 
for  its  good  Georgian  and  Victorian  houses  preserve 
some  solidity  and  are  not  yet  of  the  tenement  class. 
They  are  still  in  the  grade  of  office  and  shop  which 
is  immediately  below  their  one-time  status  of  dwellings 
for  well-to-do  merchants. 

Victoria  entered  Soho  Place  from  the  square,  so 
that  she  was  not  too  ill  impressed.  She  walked  in 
the  middle  of  the  pavement,  unconsciously  influenced 
by  the  foreign  flavour  of  Soho.  There  men  and 
women  stand  all  day  in  the  street,  talking,  bargaining, 
quarrelling  and  making  love ;  when  a  cab  rattles  by 


84  A  BED  OF   ROSES 

they  move  aside  lazily,  as  a  Neapolitan  stevedore  rolls 
a'vay  on  the  wharf  from  the  wheels  of  a  passing 
cart. 

Victoria  paused  for  a  second  on  the  steps.  No  5 
Soho  Place  was  a  good  house  enough.  The  ground 
floor  was  occupied  by  a  firm  of  auctioneers  ;  a  gentle- 
man describing  himself  as  A.R.I.B.A.  exercised  his 
profession  on  the  third  floor;  below  his  plate  was 
nailed  a  visiting-card  similar  to  the  one  Victoria  took 
from  her  reticule.  She  went  up  the  staircase  feeling 
a  little  braced  by  the  respectability  of  the  house, 
though  she  had  caught  sight  thi'ough  the  area  railings 
of  an  unspeakably  dirty  kitchen  where  unwashed  pots 
flaunted  greasy  remains  on  a  liquor  stained  deal  table. 
The  staircase  itself,  with  its  neutral  and  stained 
green  distemper,  was  not  over  encouraging.  Victoria 
stopped  at  the  first  landing.  She  had  no  need  to 
enquire  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  the  impresario  for, 
on  a  door  which  stood  ajar,  was  nailed  another  dirty 
card.  Just  as  she  was  about  to  push  it,  it  opened 
further  to  allow  a  girl  to  come  out.  She  was  very 
fair ;  her  cheeks  were  a  little  flushed ;  a  go!  den  lock 
or  two  fell  like  keepsake  ringlets  on  her  low  lace 
collar.  Victoria  just  had  time  to  see  that  the  blue 
eyes  sparkled  and  to  receive  a  cheerful  smile.  The 
girl  muttered  an  apology  and,  smiling  still,  brushed 
past  her  and  lightly  ran  down  the  stairs.  '  A  success- 
ful candidate,'  thought  Victoria,  her  heart  rising 
once  more. 

She  entered  the  room  and  found  it  empty.  It  was 
almost  entirely  bare  of  furniture,  for  little  save  an 
island  of  chairs  in  the  middle  and  faded  red  cloth 
curtains  relieved  the  uniform  dirtiness  of  the  wall 
paper  which  once  was  flowered.  One  wall  was 
entirely  covered  by  a  large  poster  where  half  a  dozen 
impossibly  charming  girls  of  the  biscuit  box  type  were 
executing  a  cancan  so  synunetrically  as  to  recall  an 
Egyptian  frieze.     The  mantlepiece  was  baie  save  foi 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  85 

tlie  signed  photogi-apli  of  some  magnificent  foreign- 
looking  athlete,  nude  to  the  waist.  Victoria  waited 
for  a  moment,  watching  a  door  which  led  into  an  inner 
room,  then  went  towards  it.  At  once  the  sound  of 
a  chair  being  pushed  back  and  the  fall  of  some  small 
article  on  the  floor  told  her  that  the  occupant  had 
heard  her  footsteps.     The  door  opened  suddenly. 

Victoria  looked  at  the  apparition  with  some  surprise. 
tn  a  single  glance  she  took  in.  the  details  of  his  face 
and  clothes,  all  of  which  were  pleasing.  The  man 
was  obviously  a  foreigner.  His  face  was  pale,  clean 
shaven  save  for  a  small  black  moustache  closely 
cropped  at  the  ends ;  his  eyes  were  brown ;  his  eye- 
brows, as  beautifully  pencilled  as  those  of  a  girl, 
emphasized  the  whiteness  of  his  high  forehead  from 
which  the  hair  receded  in  thick  waves.  His  lips,  red 
and  full,  were  parted  over  his  white  te§th  in  a  pleasant 
smile.  Victoria  saw  too  that  he  was  dressed  in  perfect 
taste,  in  soft  grey  tweed,  fitting  well  over  the  collar 
and  loose  everywhere  else  ;  his  linen  was  immaculate  ; 
in  fact  nothing  about  him  would  have  disgraced  the 
Chandraga  mess,  except  perhaps  a  gold  ring  with  a 
large  diamond  which  he  wore  on  the  little  finger  of 
his  right  hand. 

*  Mr  Carrel  ? '  said  Victoria  in  some  trepidation. 

'Yes,  Mademoiselle,'  said  the  man  pleasantly. 
*  Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  enter  ?  '  He  held  the 
door  open  and  Victoria,  hesitating  a  little,  preceded 
him. 

The  inner  room  was  almost  a  replica  of  the  outer. 
It  too  was  scantily  furnished.  On  a  large  table  heaps 
of  dusty  papers  were  stacked.  An  ash-tray  overflowed 
over  one  end.  In  a  corner  stood  a  rickety-looking 
piano.  The  walls  were  profusely  decorated  with 
posters  and  photographs,  presumably  of  actors  and 
actresses,  some  highly  renowned.  Victoria  felt  respect 
creeping  into  her  soul. 

Carrel  placed  a  chair  for  her  before  the  table  and 


86  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

resumed  his  own.  For  the  space  of  a  second  or  two 
he  looked  Victoria  over.  She  was  a  little  too  conscious 
of  his  scrutiny  to  be  quite  at  ease,  but  she  was 
not  afraid  of  the  verdict. 

*  So,  Mademoiselle,'  said  the  man  gently,  *  you  wish 
for  an  engagement  on  the  stage  ? ' 

Victoria  had  not  expected  such  directness.  *  Yes, 
I  do,'  she  said.  '  That  is,  I  was  thinking  of  it  since 
I  got  your  card.' 

*  My  card  ? '  said  Carrel,  raising  his  eyebrows  a 
little.     *  How  did  you  get  my  card  ?  ' 

Victoria  told  him  briefly  how  the  card  had  been 
thrust  into  her  hand,  how  curious  it  was  and  how 
sm-prised  she  had  been  as  she  did  did  not  know  the 
woman  and  had  never  seen  her  again.  Then  she 
frankly  confessed  that  she  had  no  experience  of  the 
stage  but  wanted  to  earn  her  living  and  that  .  .  . 
She  stopped  aghast  at  the  tactical  error.  But  Carrel 
was  looking  at  her  fixedly,  a  smile  playing  on  his  lips 
as  he  pulled  his  tiny  moustache  with  his  jewelled 
hand. 

'  Yes,  certainly,  I  understand,'  he  said.  '  Experi- 
ence is  very  useful,  naturally.  But  you  must  begin 
and  you  know  :  it  ny  a  que  le  premier  pas  qui  coute. 
Now  perhaps  you  can  sing?  It  would  be  very 
useful.' 

'  Yes,  I  can  sing,'  said  Victoria  doubtfully,  suppress- 
ing 'a  little,'  remembering  her  first  mistake. 

*  Ah,  that  is  good,'  said  Carrel  smiling.  *  Will  you 
sit  down  to  the  piano?  I  have  no  music;  ladies 
always  bring  it  but  do  you  not  know  something  by 
heart  ? ' 

Victoria  got  up,  her  heart  beating  a  little  and  went 
to  the  piano.  *I  don't  know  anything  French,'  she 
said., 

*  It  does  not  matter,'  said  Carrel,  *  you  will  learn 
easily.'  He  lowered  the  piano  stool  for  her.  As  she 
sat  down  the  side  of  his  head  brushed  her  shoulder 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  87 

lightly.     A  faint  scent  of  heliotrope  rose  from  liis 
hair. 

Victoria  dragged  ofE  her  gloves  nervously,  felt  for  the 
pedals  and  with  a  voice  that  trembled  a  little  sang 
two  ballads  which  had  always  pleased  Lympton.  The 
piano  was  frightfully  out  of  tune.  Everything  con- 
spired to  make  her  nervous.  It  was  only  when  she 
struck  the  last  note  that  she  looked  at  the  impresario. 

*  Very  good,  very  good,'  cried  Carrel.  '  Magnifique. 
Mademoiselle,  you  have  a  beautiful  voice.  You  will 
be  a  great  success  at  Vichy.' 

'  Vichy  ? '  echoed  Victoria,  a  little  overwhelmed  by 
his  approval  of  a  voice  which  she  knew  to  be  quite 
ordinary. 

*  Yes,  I  have  a  troupe  to  sing  and  dance  at  Vichy 
and  in  the  towns,  Clermont  Ferrand,  Lyon,  everywhere. 
I  mil  engage  you  to  sing  and  dance,'  said  Carrel,  his 
dark  eyes  sparkling. 

'  Oh,  I  can't  dance,'  cried  Victoria  despairingly. 

'  But  I  assure  you,  it  is  not  difficult,'  said  Carrel. 
*  We  will  teach  you.  There,  I  will  show  you  the 
contract.  As  you  have  not  had  much  experience  my 
syndicate  can  only  pay  you  one  hundred  and  fifty 
francs  a  month.  But  we  will  pay  the  expenses  and 
the  costumes.' 

Victoria  looked  doubtful  for  a  moment.  To  sing, 
to  dance,  to  go  to  France  where  she  had  never  been, 
all  this  was  sudden  and  momentous. 

*  Voyons,^  said  Carrel,  '  it  will  be  quite  easy.  I  am 
taking  four  English  ladies  with  you  and  two  do  not 
understand  the  theatre.  You  will  make  more  money 
if  the  audience  like  you.  Here  is  the  contract.'  He 
drew  a  printed  sheet  out  of  the  drawer  and  handed 
it  to  her. 

It  was  an  impressive  document  with  a  heavy  head- 
line ;  Troupe  de  Theatre  Anglaise.  It  bore  a  French 
revenue  stamp  and  contained  half-a-dozen  clauses 
in  French  which  she  struggled  through  painfully ; 


88  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

she  could  only  guess  at  their  meaning.  So  far  as 
she  could  see  she  was  bound  to  sing  and  dance 
according  to  the  programme  which  was  to  be  fixed 
by  the  Directeur,  twice  every  day  including  Sundays. 
The  syndicat  undertook  to  pay  the  railway  fares  and 
to  provide  costumes.  She  hesitated,  then  crossed 
the  Rubicon. 

*  Fill  in  the  blanks,  please,'  she  said  unsteadily. 
'  I  accept.' 

Carrel  took  up  a  pen  and  wrote  in  the  date  and 
cent  cinquante  francs.  *  What  name  will  you  adopt  ?  * 
he  asked,  *  and  what  is  your  own  name  ? ' 

Victoria  hesitated.  'My  name  is  Victoria  Fulton,' 
she  said.     *  You  may  call  me  .  .  .  Aminta  Ormond.' 

Carrel  smiled  once  more.  *  Aminta  Ormond  ?  I 
do  not  think  you  will  like  that.  It  is  not  English. 
It  is  like  Amanda.  No !  I  have  it,  Gladys  Oxford, 
it  is  excellent.' 

Before  she  could  protest  he  had  begun  writing. 
After  all,  what  did  it  matter?  She  signed  the  docu- 
ment without  a  word. 

*  Voila,'  said  Carrel  smoothly,  locking  the  drawer 
on  the  contract.  '  We  leave  from  Charing  Cross  on 
Wednesday  evening.  So  you  have  two  days  to 
prepare  yourself.  Monsieur  le  Directeur  will  meet 
you  under  the  clock  at  a  quarter  past  eight.  The 
train  leaves  at  nine.  We  will  take  your  ticket  when 
you  arrive.  Please  come  here  at  four  on  Wednesday 
and  I  will  introduce  you  to  the  Directeur.' 

Victoria  got  up  and  mechanically  shook  hands. 
Carrel  opened  the  door  for  her  and  ceremoniously 
bowed  her  out.  She  walked  into  Soho  place  as  in  a 
dream,  every  pulse  in  her  body  thrilling  with 
unwont-ed  adventure.  She  stared  at  a  dirty  window 
pane  and  wondered  at  the  brilliance  it  threw  back 
from  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  Xn 

Victoria  had  forgotten  her  latchkey.  Miss  Brigga 
opened  the  door  for  her.  Her  sallow  face 
brightened  up. 

'  There's  a  gentleman  waiting,  nnim,'  she  said,  and 
'  'ere's  a  telegram.'  Came  jest  five  minntes  after  you 
left.  I've  put  him  in  the  front  room  what's  empty, 
mum.  Thought  you'd  rather  see  him  there.  Been 
'ere  'arf  an  'our,  mum.' 

Victoria  did  not  attempt  to  disentangle  the  hours 
of  arrival  of  the  gentleman  and  the  telegram ;  she 
tore  open  the  brown  envelope  excitedly.  It  only 
heralded  the  coming  of  Edward  who  was  doubtless 
the  gentleman. 

*  Thanks,  Miss  Briggs,'  she  said,  *  it's  my  brother.' 

*  Yes,  mum,  nice  young  gentleman.  He's  all 
right ;  been  reading  the  New  Age,  mum,  this  'arf 
hour,  what  belongs  to  the  lady  on  the  third.' 

Victoria  smiled  and  went  into  the  dining-room, 
where  none  dine  in  lodging  houses  save  ghosts. 
Edward  was  standing  near  the  mantlepiece  immersed 
in  the  paper. 

'Why,  Ted,  this  is  nice  of  you,'  cried  Victoria 
going  up  to  him  and  taking  his  hand. 

'  I  had  to  come  up  to  town  suddenly,'  said  Edward, 
'  to  get  books  for  the  Head.  I'm  going  back  this 
afternoon  but  I  thought  I'd  look  you  up.  Did  you 
get  the  telegram.' 

*  Just  got  it  now,'  said  Victoria,  showing  it,  '  so 
you  might  have  saved  the  sixpence.' 

89 


90  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Tm  sorry,'  said  Edward.  *I  didn't  know  until 
this  morning.' 

'  It  doesn't  matter.  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you.' 
There  was  an  awkward  pause.  Edward  brushed 
away  the  hair  from  his  forehead.  His  hands  flew 
back  to  his  watch-chain.  Victoria  had  briefly 
written  to  him  to  tell  him  why  she  left  the  Holts. 
Fearful  of  all  that  touches  women,  he  was  acutely 
conscious  that  he  blamed  her  and  yet  knew  her  to 
be  blameless. 

*  It's  a  beautiful  day,'  he  said  suddenly. 

'Isn't  it?'  agreed  Victoria,  looking  at  him  with 
surprise.     There  was  another  pause. 

*  What  are  you  doing  just  now,  Vic  ? '  Edward 
breathed  more  freely,  having  taken  the  plunge. 

'  I've  just  got  some  work,'  said  Victoria.  '  I  begin 
on  Wednesday.' 

*  Oh,  indeed  ? '  said  Edward  with  increasing  interest. 
'  Have  you  got  a  post  as  companion  ?  ' 

'  Well,  not  exactly,'  said  Victoria.  She  realised 
that  her  story  was  not  very  easy  to  tell  a  man  like 
Edward.  He  looked  at  her  sharply.  His  face  flushed. 
His  brow  puckered.  With  both  hands  he  grasped 
his  watch-chain. 

'I  hope,  Victoria,'  he  said  severely,  'that  you  are 
not  adopting  an  occupation  unworthy  of  a  lady.  I 
mean  I  know  you  couldn't,'  he  added,  his  severity 
melting  into  nervousness. 

*  I  suppose  nothing's  unworthy,'  said  Victoria  ;  *  the 
fact  is,  Ted,  I'm  afraid  you  won't  like  it  much,  but 
I'm  going  on  the  stage.' 

Edward  started  and  flushed  like  an  angry  boy.  '  On 
the  .  .  .  the  stage  ? '  he  gasped. 

*  Yes,'  said  Victoria  quietly.  '  I've  got  an  engage- 
ment for  six  months  to  play  at  Vichy  and  other  places 
in  France.  I  only  get  six  pounds  a  month  but  they 
pay  all  the  expenses  I'll  have  quite  thirty  pounds 
clear  when  I  come  back.    What  do  you  think  of  that  ? ' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  91 

*  It's  .  .  .  it's  awful,'  cried  Edward  losing  all  self- 
consciousness.  '  How  can.  you  do  such  a  thing,  Vic  ? 
If  it  were  in  London,  it  would  be  different.  You 
simply  can't  do  it.' 

*  Can't  ? '  asked  Victoria,  raising  her  eyebrows. 
'Why?' 

'It's  not  done.  No  really  Vic,  you  can't  do  it,' 
Edward  was  evidently  disturbed.  Fancy  a  sister  of 
his  ...  It  was  preposterous. 

'I'm  sorry,  Ted,'  said  Victoria,  'but  I'm  going  on 
Wednesday.     I've  signed  the  agreement.' 

Edward  looked  at  her  almost  horror-struck.  His 
spectacles  had  slid  down  to  the  sharp  tip  of  his 
nose. 

'You  are  doing  very  wrong,  Victoria,'  he  said, 
resuming  his  pedagogic  gravity.  '  You  could  have 
done  nothing  that  I  should  have  disapproved  of  as 
much.    You  should  have  looked  out  for  something  else.' 

*  Looked  out  for  something  else  ? '  said  Victoria 
with  the  suspicion  of  a  sneer.  '  Look  here,  Ted.  I 
know  you  mean  well,  but  I  know  what  I'm  doing ; 
I  haven't  been  in  London  for  six  months  without 
finding  out  that  life  is  hard  on  women  like  me.  I'm 
no  good  because  I'm  too  good  for  a  poor  job  and  not 
suitable  for  a  superior  one.  So  I've  just  got  to  do 
what  I  can.' 

'  Why  didn't  you  try  for  a  post  as  companion  ? ' 
asked  Edward  with  a  half  snarl. 

'  Try  indeed  !  Anybody  can  see  you  haven't  had 
to  try,  Ted.  I've  tried  everything  I  could  think  of, 
agencies,  societies,  papers,  everything.  I  can't  get 
a  post.  I  must  do  something.  I've  got  to  take  what  I 
can  get.  I  know  it  now ;  we  women  are  just  raw 
material.  The  world  uses  as  much  of  us  as  it  needs 
and  throws  the  rest  on  the  scrap  heap.  Do  you  think 
I  don't  keep  my  eyes  open?  Do  you  think  I  don't 
see  that  when  you  want  somebody  to  do  double  work 
at  half  rates  you  get  a  woman  ?    And  she  thanks  God 


93  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

and  struggles  for  the  work  that's  too  dirty  or  too  hard 
for  a  man  to  touch.' 

Victoria  paced  up  and  down  the  small  room,  carried 
away  by  her  vehemence.  Edward  said  nothing.  He 
was  much  upset  and  did  not  know  what  to  say ;  he 
had  never  seen  Victoria  like  this  and  he  was  con- 
stitutionally afraid  of  vigour. 

'  I'm  sorry,  Ted,'  said  Victoria  stopping  suddenly. 
She  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve.  '  There,  don't  sulk 
with  me.  Let's  go  out  to  lunch  and  I'll  go  and  choose 
your  books  with  you  after.     Is  it  a  bargain  ?  ' 

*  I  don't  want  to  discuss  the  matter  again,'  replied 
Edward  with  as  much  composure  as  he  could  muster. 
*  Yes,  let's  go  out  to  lunch.' 

The  rest  of  the  day  passed  without  another  word  on 
the  subject  of  Victoria's  downfall.  She  saw  Edward 
off  at  St  Pancras.  After  he  had  said  good-bye  to  her, 
he  suddenly  leaned  out  of  the  window  of  the  railway 
carriage  as  if  to  speak,  then  changed  his  mind  and 
sank  back  on  the  seat.    Victoria  smiled  at  her  victory. 

Next  morning  she  broke  the  news  to  Miss  Briggs. 
The  landlady  seemed  amazed  as  well  as  concerned. 

*  You  seem  rather  taken  aback,'  said  Victoria. 

*  Well,  mum,  you  see  it's  a  funny  thing  the  stage ; 
young  ladies  all  seems  to  think  it's  easy  to  get  on. 
And  then  they  don't  get  on.     And  there  you  are.' 

*  Well  I  am  on,'  said  Victoria,  *  so  I  shall  have  to 
leave  on  Wednesday.' 

*  Sorry  to  lose  you,  mum,'  said  Miss  Briggs.  *  'ope 
yer'll  'ave  a  success.  In  course,  as  you  'aven't  given 
me  notice,  mum,  it'll  'ave  to  be  a  week's  money  more.' 

'Oh,  come  Miss  Briggs,  this  is  too  bad,'  cried 
Victoria,  'why,  you've  got  a  whole  floor  vacant! 
What  would  it  have  mattered  if  I  had  given  you 
notice  ? ' 

'Might  have  let  it,  mum.  Besides  it's  the  law,' 
said  Miss  Briggs,  placing  her  arms  akimbo,  ready  for 
the  fray. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  93 

*  Very  well  then,'  said  Victoria  coldly,  *  don't  let's 
say  anything  more  about  it.' 

Miss  Briggs  looked  at  her  critically.  '  No  offence 
meant,  mum,'  she  said  timidly,  'it's  a  'ard  life, 
lodgers.' 

*  Indeed  ? '  said  Victoria  without  any  show  of 
interest. 

'  You  wouldn't  believe  it,  mum,  all  I've  got  to  put 
up  with.     There's  Hetty  now  .  .  .' 

'  Yes,  yes,  Miss  Briggs,'  said  Victoria  impatiently, 
*  you've  told  me  about  Hetty.' 

*  To  be  sure,  mum,'  replied  Miss  Briggs,  humbly. 
*It  ain't  easy  to  make  ends  meet.  What  with  the 
rent  and  them  Borough  Council  rates.  There  ain't 
no  end  to  it,  mum.  I  lives  in  the  basement,  miun, 
and  that  means  gas  all  the  afternoon,  mum.' 

Victoria  looked  at  her  again.  This  was  a  curious 
outlook.  The  poor  troglodyte  had  translated  the 
glory  of  the  sun  into  cubic  feet  of  gas. 

'  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is  hard,'  she  said  reflectively. 

'  To  be  sure,  mum,'  mused  Miss  Briggs.  '  Some- 
times you  can't  let  at  all.  I've  watched  through  the 
area  railings,  mum,  many  a  long  day  in  August, 
wondering  if  the  legs  I  can  see  was  coming  'ere. 
They  don't  mostly,  mum.' 

'  Then  why  do  you  go  on  ? '  asked  Victoria  harden- 
ing suddenly. 

'What  am  I  to  do,  mum?  I  just  gets  my  board 
and  lodging  out  of  it,  mum.  Keeps  one  respectable  ; 
always  been  respectable,  mum.  That  ain't  so  easy  in 
London,  mum.  Ah,  when  I  was  a  young  girl,  might 
have  been  different,  mum  ;  you  should  have  seen  me 
'air.  Curls  like  anything,  mum,  when  I  puts  it  in 
papers.     'Ad  a  bit  of  a  figui-e  too,  mum.' 

'  Deary  me  ! ' 

Victoria  looked  with  sympathy  at  the  hard  thin 
face,  the  ragged  hair.  Yes,  she  was  respectable 
enough,  poor  Miss  Briggs !      Women  have  a  hard 


94  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

life.     No  wonder  they  too  are  hard.     You  cannot 
afford  to  be  earthenware  among  the  brass  pots. 

*  What  will  you  do  when  you  can't  run  the  house 
any  more  ?  '  she  asked  more  gently. 

*  Do,  mum  ?     I  dunno.' 
Yet  another  philosophy. 

*  Miss  Briggs,'  came  a  man's  voice  from  the  stairs. 

'  Coming,  sir,'  yelled  Miss  Briggs  in  the  penetrating 
tone  that  calling  from  cellar  to  attic  teaches. 

*  Where  are  my  boots  ? '  said  the  voice  on  the  stairs. 
'I'll    get   'em    for    you,   sir,'   cried    Miss   Briggs 

shuffling  to  the  door  on  her  worn  slippers. 

Life  is  a  hard  thing,  thought  Victoria  again. 
Another  woman  for  the  scrap  heap.  Fourteen  hours 
work  a  day,  nightmares  of  unlet  rooms,  boots  to 
black  and  coals  to  carry,  dirt,  loneliness,  harsh  words 
and  at  the  end  '  I  dunno.'  Is  that  to  be  my  fate  ? 
Bhe  wondered. 

However  her  blood  soon  raced  again  ;  she  was  an 
actress,  she  was  going  abroad,  she  was  going  to  see 
the  world,  to  enslave  it,  to  have  adventures,  live. 
It  was  good.  All  that  day  Victoria  trod  on  air.  She 
no  longer  felt  her  loneliness.  The  sun  was  out  and 
aglow,  bringing  in  its  premature  exuberance  joyful 
moisture  to  her  temples.  She,  with  the  world,  was 
young.  In  a  fit  of  extravagance  she  lunched  at  a 
half  crown  table  d'hote  in  Oxford  Street,  where  pink 
shades  softly  diffuse  the  light  on  shining  glass  and 
silver.  The  coffee  was  almost  regal,  so  strong,  so  full 
of  sap.  The  light  of  triumph  was  in  her  eyes,  making 
men  turn  back,  sometimes  follow  and  look  into  her 
face,  half  appealing,  half  insolent.  But  Victoria  was 
unconscious  of  them,  for  the  world  was  at  her  feet. 
She  was  the  axis  of  the  earth.  It  was  in  such  a  frame 
of  mind  that,  the  next  day,  she  climbed  the  steps  of 
Soho  Place,  careless  of  the  view  into  the  underground 
kitchen,  of  the  two  dogs  who  under  the  archway 
fought,  growling,  fouling  the  air  with  the  scents  of  their 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  95 

hides,  over  a  piece  of  offal.  She  ran  up  the  stairs 
lightly.     The  door  was  still  ajar. 

Two  men  were  sitting  in  the  anteroom,  both 
smoking  briar  pipes.     The  taller  of  the  two  got  up. 

'  Yes  ? '  he  said  interrogatively. 

'I  .  .  .  yon  ...  is  Mr  Carrel  here?'  asked 
Victoria  nervously. 

*  No  Miss,'  said  the  man  calmly,  '  he's  just  gone  to 
Marlborough  Street.' 

*  Oh,'  said  Victoria,  still  nervous,  *  will  he  be  long  ? ' 
*I  should  say  so,  miss,'  replied  the  man,  'perhaps 

twelve  months,  perhaps  more.' 

Victoria  gasped.  'I  don't  understand,'  she  said, 
but  her  heart  began  to  beat. 

'  Don't  s'pose  you  would,  miss,'  said  the  short  man, 
getting  up.  '  Fact  is,  miss,  we're  the  police  and 
we've  had  to  take  him ;  just  about  time  we  did,  too. 
Leaving  for  France  to-night  with  a  batch  of  girls. 
S'pose  you're  one  of  them  ? ' 

'  I  was  going  to-night,'  said  Victoria  faintly. 

*  May  I  have  your  name  ? '  asked  the  tall  man 
politely,  taking  out  a  pocket  book. 

'  Fulton,'  she  faltered.     '  Victoria  Fulton.' 

'M'yes,  that's  it.  'Gladys  Oxford,'  said  the  tall 
man  turning  back  a  page.  'Well  Miss,  you  can 
thank  your  stars  you're  out  of  it.' 

'  But  what  has  he  done  ? '  asked  Victoria  with  an 
effort. 

'  Lord,  Miss,  you're  from  the  country,  I  can  see,' 
said  the  short  man  amiably.  '  I  thought  everybody 
knew  that  little  game.  Take  you  over  to  Vichy,  you 
know.  Make  you  dance  and  sing.  Provide 
costumes.'     He  winked  at  his  companion. 

*  Costumes,'  said  Victoria,  '  what  do  you  mean  ? ' 

*  Costumes  don't  mean  much,  Miss,  over  there,'  said 
the  tall  man.  *  Fact  is  you'd  have  to  wear  what  they 
like  and  sing  what  they  like  when  you  pass  the  plate 
round  among  the  customers.' 


96  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Sometliing  seemed  to  freeze  in  Victoria. 

*  He  said  it  was  a  theatre  of  varieties,'  she  gasped. 

*  Quite  true,'  said  the  tall  man  with  returning 
cynicism.  *  A  theatre  right  enough,  but  you'd  have 
supplied  the  variety  to  the  customers.' 

Victoria  clenched  her  hands  on  the  handle  of  her 
parasol.     Then  she  turned  to  fly. 

The  short  man  stopped  her  and  demanded  her 
address,  informing  her  that  she  was  to  attend  at 
Marlborough  Street  next  day  at  eleven  thirty. 

'Case  mayn't  be  called  before  twelve,'  he  added. 
'Sorry  to  trouble  you,  Miss.  You  won't  hear  any 
more  about  it  unless  it's  a  case  for  the  Sessions.' 

Victoria  ran  down  the  steps,  through  the  alley  and 
into  Charing  Cross  Road  as  if  something  was  tracking 
her,  tracking  her  down.  So  this  was  the  end  of  the 
dream.  She  had  stretched  her  hand  out  to  the  roses, 
and  the  gods,  less  merciful  to  her  than  to  Tantalus,  had 
filled  her  palm  with  thorns.  It  was  horrible,  horrible. 
She  had  imagination,  and  a  memory  of  old  prints  after 
Rowlandson  which  her  father  had  treasured  came 
back  to  her  with  almost  nauseating  force.  She 
pictured  the  French  cafk  chantant  like  the  Cave  of 
Harmony ;  rough  boards  on  trestles,  laden  with 
tankards  of  foaming  beer,  muddy  lights,  a  foulness  of 
tobacco  smoke,  a  raised  stage  with  an  enormous 
woman  singing  on  it,  her  eye  fi'ightfully  dilated  by 
belladonna,  her  massive  arms  and  legs  gleaming 
behind  the  dirty  footlights  and  everywhere  aroimd 
men  smoking,  with  noses  like  snouts,  bodies  like 
swine's,  haiiy  hands — hands,  ye  gods  ! 

She  walked  quickly  away  from  the  place  of  revela- 
tion. She  hurried  through  the  five  o'clock  inferno  of 
Trafalgar  Square,  careless  of  the  traffic,  escaping 
death  ten  times.  She  hurried  down  the  spaces  of 
Whitehall,  and  only  slackened  her  pace  at  West- 
minster Bridge.  There  she  stopped  for  a  moment ; 
the  sun  was  setting  and  gilded  and  empurpled  the 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  97 

foreshores.  The  horror  of  the  past  half  hour  seemed 
to  fade  away  as  she  watched  the  roses  and  mauves 
bloom,  and  blend,  the  deep  shadows  of  the  embank- 
ments rise  and  fall.  Near  by,  a  vagrant,  every  inch 
of  him  clothed  in  rags,  the  dirt  of  his  face  mimicking 
their  colour,  smoked  a  short  clay  pipe,  puffing  at  long 
intervals  small  wreaths  of  smoke  into  the  blue  air. 
And  as  Victoria  watched  them  form,  rise  and  vanish 
into  nothingness,  the  sun  kiss  gently  but  pitilessly 
the  old  vagrant  hunched  up  against  the  parapet,  the 
horror  seemed  to  melt  away.  The  peace  of  the 
evening  was  expelling  it,  but  another  dread  visitor 
was  heralded  in.  Victoria  felt  like  lead  in  her  heart, 
the  return  of  uncertainty.  Once  more  she  was  an 
outcast.  No  work.  Once  more  she  must  ask  herself 
what  to  do  and  find  no  answer. 

The  river  glittered  and  rose  and  fell,  as  if  inviting 
her.  Victoria  shuddered.  It  was  not  yet  time  for 
that.  She  turned  back  and,  with  downcast  eyes, 
made  for  St  James's  Park.  There  she  sat  for  a 
moment  watching  a  pelican  flop  on  his  island,  the 
waterfowl  race  and  dive.  The  problem  of  life  was 
upon  her  now  and  where  was  the  solution  ?  Must  I 
tread  the  mill  once  more?  thought  Victoria.  The 
vision  of  agencies  again,  of  secretaries  courteous  or 
rude,  of  waits  and  hopes  and  despairs,  all  rushed  at 
her  and  convinced  her  of  the  uselessness  of  it  all. 
She  was  alone,  always  alone,  because  she  wanted  to 
be  free,  to  be  happy,  to  live.  Perhaps  she  had  been 
wrong  after  all  to  resist  the  call  of  the  river.  She 
shuddered  once  more.  A  couple  passed  her  with 
hands  interlocked,  eyes  gazing  into  eyes.  No,  life 
must  hold  forth  to  her  something  to  make  it  worth 
while.  She  was  cold.  She  got  up  and,  with  nervous 
determination,  walked  quickly  towards  the  gate. 

The  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  get  quit  of  all  the 
horrors  of  the  day,  to  cut  away  the  wreckage.  She 
dared  not   stay  at    Castle  Street.      She  would  be 


98  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

tracked.  She  would  have  to  give  evidence.  She 
couldn't  do  it-  She  couldn't.  Victoria  having  re- 
gained her  coolness  was  in  no  wise  uncertain  as  to  her 
course  of  action.  The  first  thing  to  do  was  for  her  to 
lose  herself  in  London,  ^d  that  so  deep  that  none 
could  drag  her  out  and  force  her  to  tell  her  story. 
She  must  change  her  lodgings  then.  Nothing  could 
be  easier,  as  she  had  already  given  Miss  Briggs 
notice.  In  fact  the  best  thing  to  do  would  be  to  keep 
up  the  fiction  of  her  departure  for  France. 


CHAPTER  Xni 

Victoria  entered  her  room.  It  was  in  the  condition 
that  speaks  of  departure.  Her  trunks  were  packed 
and  corded,  all  save  a  small  suitcase  which  still 
gaped,  showing  spaces  among  the  sundries  that  the 
skilled  packer  collects  in  the  same  bundle.  Every 
drawer  was  open ;  the  bed  was  unmade ;  the  room 
was  littered  with  newspapers  and  nondescript  articles 
discarded  at  the  last  moment.  Victoria  rang  her  bell 
and  quickly  finished  packing  the  suitcase  with  soap, 
washing  gloves,  powder-puffs  and  such  like.  As  she 
turned  the  key  Miss  Briggs  opened  the  door. 

'Oh,  Miss  Briggs,'  said  Victoria  quietly,  *I  find 
that  I  must  go  down  by  an  earlier  train ;  I  must  be 
at  Charing  Cross  in  an  hour ;  I'm  going  now.' 

'Yes,  mum,'  said  Miss  Briggs  without  interest. 
'  Shall  I  tell  the  greengrocer  to  come  now,  mum  ?  ' 

'  Yes  please.  Miss  Briggs ;  here  are  the  seven 
shillings.' 

Miss  Briggs  accepted  the  money  without  a  word. 
It  had  formed  the  basis  of  a  hot  argument  between 
her  and  her  tenant ;  she  considered  herself  entitled 
to  one  week's  rent  in  lieu  of  notice  but  Victoria's  new 
bom  sense  of  business  had  urged  the  fact  that  she 
had  had  two  days  notice ;  this  had  saved  her  three 
shillings.  Miss  Briggs  laboured  under  a  sense  of 
injury,  so  she  did  not  see  Victoria  to  the  door. 

This  was  well,  for  Victoria  was  able  to  pay  the 
greengrocer  and  to  get  rid  of  him  in  an  artistic 
manner  by  sending  him  to  post  an  empty  envelope 


loo  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

addressed  to  an  imaginary  person,  wliile  she  directed 
tlie  cabman  to  Paddington ;  this  saved  her  awkward 
questions  and  would  leave  Miss  Briggs  under  the 
impression  that  she  had  gone  to  Charing  Cross. 

At  Paddington  station  she  left  her  luggage  in  the 
cloak-room  and  went  out  to  find  lodgings.  Her  quest 
was  short,  for  she  had  ceased  to  be  particular,  so  that 
within  an  hour  she  was  installed  in  an  imposing 
ground  floor  front  in  the  most  respectable  house  in 
Star  Street.  The  district  was  not  so  refined  as 
Portsea  Place,  but  the  house  seemed  clean  and  the 
quarters  were  certainly  cheaper ;  eleven  and  six 
covered  both  them  and  the  usual  breakfast. 

Victoria  surveyed  the  room  in  a  friendly  manner  ; 
there  was  nothing  attractive  or  repulsive  in  it ;  it 
was  clean ;  the  furniture  was  almost  exactly  similar 
to  that  which  graced  her  lodgings  in  Portsea  Place 
and  in  Castle  Street.  The  landlady  seemed  a  friendly 
body,  and  had  already  saved  Victoria  a  drain  on  her 
small  store  by  sending  her  son,  an  out-of-work 
furrier's  hand,  to  fetch  the  luggage  in  a  handcart. 
Remembering  that  she  was  a  fugitive  from  justice 
she  gave  her  name  as  Miss  Ferris. 

Victoria  returned  from  a  hurried  tea,  unpacked 
with  content  the  trunk  that  should  have  followed 
her  to  France.  She  was  almost  exhilarated  by  the 
feeling  of  safety  which  enveloped  her  like  comforting 
warmth.  The  day  was  blithe  in  unison.  She  felt 
quite  safe,  every  movement  of  her  flight  having  been 
so  skilfully  calculated ;  she  was  revelling  therefore 
in  her  escape  from  danger,  the  deepest  and  truest 
of  all  joys. 

The  next  morning,  however,  found  her  in  the 
familiar  mood  of  wondering  what  was  to  become  of 
her.  After  an  extremely  inferior  breakfast  which 
brought  down  upon  the  already  awed  Mrs  Smith 
well  deserved  reproaches,  Victoria  investigated  the 
Telegraph  columns  with  the  usual  negative  results  and, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  loi 

in  tlie  resultant  acid  frame  of  mind,  went  tkrongh 
her  accounts  and  discovered  tliat  her  possessions 
amounted  to  twelve  pounds,  eight  shillings  and  four 
pence.  This  was  a  terrible  blow  ;  the  outfit  for  the 
interview  with  Carrel  and  the  trip  to  France  had  dug 
an  enormous  hole  in  Victoria's  resources. 

*  I  must  hurry  up  and  find  something,'  said  Victoria 
to  herself.  '  Twelve  pounds  eight  and  fourpence — 
say  twelve  weeks — and  then  ?  ' 

The  next  morning  reconciled  her  a  little  to  her 
fate.  True,  the  paper  yielded  no  help,  but  a  lengthy 
account  of  Carrel's  preliminary  examination  occupied 
three  quarters  of  a  column  in  the  police  court  report. 
It  was  apparently  a  complicated  case,  for  Carrel  had 
been  remanded  and  bail  refused.  The  report  did 
not  yield  her  much  information.  Apparently  Carrel 
was  indicted  for  other  counts  than  the  exporting  of 
the  dancing  girls  to  Vichy,  for  nine  women  had 
appeared.  Victoria  had  quite  a  thrill  of  horror  when 
she  read  the  line  in  which  the  well  schooled  reporter 
dismissed  the  evidence  of  Miss  'S,'  by  saying  that 

*  Miss  S here  gave  an  account  of  her  experience 

in  the  green  room  of  the  Folichon-Palace  in  1902.' 
The  baldness  of  the  statement  was  appaling  in  its 
suggestiveness.  She  had  been  called,  apparently, 
but  no  comment  was  made  on  her  non-appearance. 

'  That's  all  over,'  said  Victoria  with  decision, 
throwing  the  newspaper  down.  She  rose  from  the 
armchair,  shook  herself  and  opened  the  window  to 
let  out  the  smell  of  breakfast.  Then  she  put  on  her 
hat  and  gloves  and  decided  to  have  a  walk  to  cheer 
herself  up.  Mindful  that  she  was  in  a  sense  a 
fugitive,  she  avoided  the  Marble  Arch  and  made  for 
the  Park  through  the  desolate  respectability  of 
Lancaster  Gate. 

She  made  for  the  South  East,  unconsciously  guided 
by  the  hieratic  shot  tower  of  Westminster.  It  was 
early ;  the  freshness  of  May  still  bejewelled  with  dew 


loa  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

drops  the  crisp  new  grass ;  tlie  gravel,  stained  dark 
by  moisture,  hardly  cmuched  under  her  feet,  but  gave 
like  springy  turf.  Forgetting  her  depleted  exchequer 
Victoria  stepped  briskly  as  if  on  business  bent, 
looking  at  nothing  but  absorbing  as  through  her 
skin  the  kisses  of  the  western  wind.  At  Hyde  Park 
Corner  she  turned  into  St  James's  Park,  and,  passing 
the  barracks,  received  with  an  old  familiar  thrill 
a  covert  smile  from  the  handsome  sentry.  After  all 
she  was  young,  and  it  was  good  somehow  to  be  once 
more  smiled  at  by  a  soldier.  Soldiers,  soldiers — stupid 
perhaps,  but  could  one  help  liking  them?  Victoria 
let  her  thoughts  run  back  to  Dicky — poor  old  wasted 
Dicky — and  the  Colonel  and  his  liver,  and  Bobby, 
who  would  never  be  anything  but  Bobby,  and  Major 
Cairns  too.  Victoria  felt  a  tiny  pang  as  she  thought 
of  the  Major.  He  was  hardly  young  or  handsome 
but  strong,  reassuring.  She  suddenly  felt  his  lips 
on  her  neck  again  as  she  gazed  rapidly  at  the  dark 
lift  on  the  horizon  of  the  coast  of  Araby.  He  was 
a  good  fellow,  the  Major.  She  would  like  to  meet 
him  again. 

She  had  reached  Westminster  Bridge.  Her  thoughts 
fell  away  from  the  comfortable  presence  of  Major 
Cairns.  Hunched  up  against  the  parapet  sat  the  old 
vagrant  she  had  seen  there  before,  motionless,  his 
rags  lifting  in  the  breeze,  puffs  of  smoke  coming  at 
long  intervals  from  his  short  clay  pipe.  Victoria 
shuddered ;  it  seemed  as  if  her  life  were  bound  to 
a  wheel  which  brought  her  back  inexorably  to  the 
same  spot  until  the  time  came  for  her  to  lose  there 
energy  and  life  itself.  She  turned  quickly  towards 
the  Embankment,  and,  as  she  rounded  the  curve, 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  old  vagrant.  The  symbol 
of  time  had  not  moved. 

Another  twenty  minutes  of  quick  walking  had 
brought  her  to  the  City.  She  was  no  longer  fearful 
of  it ;  indeed  she  almost  enjoyed  its  surge  and  roar. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  103 

Log  that  she  was,  tossed  on  a  stormy  sea,  she  could 
not  help  feeling  the  joy  of  life  in  its  buffeting.  Not 
even  the  dullness  and  eternal  length  of  Queen  Victoria 
Street,  which  seems  in  the  City,  like  Gower  Street, 
indefinite  and  interminable,  robbed  her  of  the  curious 
exultation  which  she  felt  whenever  she  entered  the 
precincts.  Here  at  least  was  life  and  doing;  ugly 
doing  perhaps,  but  things  worthy  of  the  name  of 
action.  At  Mansion  House  she  stopped  for  a  moment 
to  look  at  the  turmoil :  drays,  motorbuses,  cabs, 
cycles,  entangled  and  threatening  everywhere  the 
little  running  black  mites  of  humanity. 

As  Victoria  passed  the  Bank  and  walked  up  Princes 
Street  she  felt  hungry,  for  it  was  nearly  one  o'clock. 
She  turned  up  a  lane  and  stopped  before  a  small 
shop  which  arrested  her  attention  by  its  name  above 
the  door.  It  was  called  '  The  Rosebud  Cafe,'  e very- 
letter  of  its  name  being  made  up  of  tiny  roses ;  all 
the  woodwork  was  painted  white ;  the  door  was 
glazed  and  faced  with  pink  curtains ;  pink  half 
blinds  lined  the  two  small  windows,  nothing  ap- 
pearing through  them  except,  right  and  left,  two  tall 
palms.  *  The  Rosebud,'  had  a  freshness  and  newness 
that  pleased  her ;  and,  as  it  boldly  announced  luncheons 
and  teas,  she  pushed  the  white  door  open  and  entered. 
The  room  was  larger  than  the  outside  gave  reason  to 
think,  for  it  was  all  in  depth.  It  was  pretty  in  a 
style  suggesting  a  combination  of  Watteau,  Dresden 
China,  and  the  top  of  a  biscuit  tin.  All  the  woodwork 
was  white,  relieved  here  and  there  by  pink  drapery 
and  cunningly  selected  water  colours  of  more  or  less 
the  same  tint.  From  the  roof,  at  close  intervals,  hung 
little  baskets  of  paper  roses.  The  back  part  of  the 
room  was  glazed  over,  which  showed  that  it  lay 
below  the  well  of  a  tall  building.  Symmetrically 
ranged  were  little  tables,  some  large  enough  for  four 
persons,  mostly  however  meant  for  two,  but  Victoria 
noticed  that  they  were  all  untenanted;   in  fact  the 


104  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

room  was  empty,  save  for  a  woman  wlio  on  lier  liands 
and  knees  was  loudly  washing  the  upper  steps  of 
a  staircase  leading  into  a  cellar,  and  for  a  tall  girl 
who  stood  on  a  ladder  at  the  far  end  of  the  room 
critically  surveying  a  picture  she  had  just  put  up. 

Victoria  hesitated  for  a  moment.  The  girl  on  the 
ladder  looked  round  and  jumped  down.  She  was 
dressed  in  severe  black  out  of  which  her  long 
white  face,  mantling  pink  at  the  cheeks,  emerged 
like  a  flower ;  indeed  Victoria  wondered  whether  she 
had  been  selected  as  an  attendant  because  she  was 
in  harmony  with  the  colour  scheme  of  the  shop.  The 
girl  was  quite  charming  out  of  sheer  insignificance ; 
her  fair  hair  untidily  crowned  her  with  a  halo  man-ed 
by  flying  wisps.  Her  little  pink  mouth,  perpetually 
open  and  pouting  querulous  over  three  white  upper 
teeth,  showed  annoyance  at  being  disturbed. 

*  We  aren't  open,'  she  said  with  much  decision.  It 
was  clearly  quite  bad  enough  to  have  to  look  forward 
to  work  on  the  morrow  without  anticipating  the  evil. 

*  Oh,'  said  Victoria,  '  I'm  sorry,  I  didn't  know.* 

'  We  open  on  Monday,'  said  the  fair  girl.     *  Sharp.' 

*  Yes  ? '  answered  Victoria  vaguely  interested  as 
one  is  in  things  newly  born.  *  This  is  a  pretty  place, 
isn't  it?' 

A  flicker  of  animation.  The  fair  girl's  blue  eyes 
opened  wider.  *  Rather,'  she  said.  *  I  did  the 
water  colours,'  she  explained  with  pride. 

*  How  clever  of  you ! '  exclaimed  Victoria.  *  I  couldn't 
draw  to  save  my  life.* 

*  Coloured  them  up,  I  mean,'  the  girl  apologised 
grudgingly.     '  It  was  a  long  job,  I  can  tell  you.' 

Victoria  smiled.  *  Well,'  she  said,  '  I  must  come 
back  on  Monday  and  see  it  finished  if  I'm  in  the  City.' 

*  Oh,  aren't  you  in  the  City  ? '  asked  the  girl. 
*  West  End  ? ' 

'  No,  not  exactly  West  End,'  said  Victoria.  *  I'm 
not  doing  anything  just  now.' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  105 

The  fair  girl  gave  lier  a  glance  of  faint  suspicion. 

*  Oh,  aye,  I  see,'  she  said  slowly,  thoughtfully 
considering  the  rather  full  lines  of  Victoria's  figure. 

Victoria  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of  what  she  saw. 
'  I'm  looking  out  for  a  berth,'  she  remarked  casually. 

*  Oh,  are  you  ?  '  said  the  girl  with  renewed  anima- 
tion.    '  What's  your  line  ? ' 

'Anything,'  said  Victoria.  She  looked  round  the 
pink  and  white  shop.  A  feeling  of  weariness  had 
suddenly  come  over  her.  The  woman  at  the  top  of 
the  steps  had  backed  away  a  little,  and  was  rhythmic- 
ally swishing  a  wet  rag  on  the  linoleum.  Under  her 
untidy  hair  her  neck  gleamed  red  and  fleshy,  touched 
here  and  there  with  beads  of  perspiration.  Victoria 
took  her  in  as  unconsciously  as  she  would  an  ox 
patiently  straining  at  the  yoke.  To  and  fro  the 
woman's  body  rocked,  like  a  machine  wound  up  to 
work  until  its  parts  drop  out  worn  and  useless. 

'  Ever  done  any  waiting  ?  '  The  voice  of  the  girl 
almost  made  Victoria  jump.  She  saw  herself  being 
critically  inspected. 

'  No,  never,'  she  faltered.  *  That's  to  say,  I  would, 
if  I  got  a  billet.' 

'  Mm,'  said  the  girl,  eyeing  her  over.     *  Mm.' 

Victoria's  heart  beat  unreasonably.  *  Do  you  know 
where  I  can  get  a  job  ?  '  she  asked. 

'  Well,'  said  the  girl  very  deliberately,  '  the  fact  of 
the  matter  is,  that  we're  short  here.  We  had  a  letter 
this  morning.  One  of  our  girls  left  home  yesterday. 
Says  she  can't  come.     They  don't  know  where  she  is.' 

'Yes,'  said  Victoria,  too  excited  to  speculate  as  to 
the  implied  tragedy. 

'If  you  like,  you  can  see  the  manager,'  said  the 
girl.     '  He's  down  there.'     She  pointed  to  tie  cellar. 

'Thank  you  so  much,'  said  Victoria,  'it's  awfully 
kind  of  you.'  The  fair  girl  walked  to  the  banisters. 
*  Mr  Stein,'  she  cried  shiilly  into  the  darkness. 

There  was  a  rumble,  a  sound  like  the  upsetting  of 


io6  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

a  chair,  footsteps  on  the  stairs.    A  head  appeared  on 
a  level  with  the  floor. 

*  Vat  is  it  ? '  growled  a  voice. 

*  New  girl ;  wants  to  be  taken  on.' 

'Veil,  take  her  on,'  growled  the  voice.  'You  are 
ze  'ead  vaitress,  gn,  you  are  responsible.* 

Victoria  had  just  time  to  see  the  head,  perfectly 
round,  short-haired,  white  faced,  cloven  by  a  turned 
up  black  moustache,  when  it  vanished  once  more. 
The  Germanic  '  gn '  at  the  end  of  the  first  sentence 
puzzled  her. 

*  Sulky  beast,'  murmured  the  girl.  *  Anyhow,  that's 
settled.  You  know  the  wages,  don't  you?  Eight 
bob  a  week  and  your  lunch  and  tea.' 

'  Eight  .  .  .'  gasped  Victoria.  '  But  I  can't  live 
on  that.' 

*  My,  you  are  a  green  'un,'  smiled  the  girl.  *  With 
a  face  like  that  you'll  make  twenty-five  bob  in  tips  by 
the  time  we've  been  on  for  a  month.'  She  looked 
again  at  Victoria  not  unkindly. 

'  Tips,'  said  Victoria  reflectively.  Awful,  But 
after  all,  what  did  it  matter. 

'  All  right,'  she  said,  '  put  me  down.' 

The  girl  took  her  name  and  address.  *  Half-past 
eight  sharp  on  Monday,'  she  said,  *  'cos  it's  opening 
day.  Usual  time  half-past  nine,  off  at  four  two  days 
a  week.  Other  days  seven.  Nine  o'clock  mid  and 
end.' 

Victoria  stared  a  little.  This  was  a  business 
woman. 

'  Sorry,'  said  the  girl,  *  must  leave  you.  Got  a  lot 
more  to  do  to-day.  My  name's  Laura.  It'll  have  to 
be  Lottie  though.  Nothing  like  Lottie  to  make 
feUows  remember  you.' 

*  Remember  you  ? '  asked  Victoria  puzzled. 
'Lord,    yes,    how    you    going    to    make    your 

station  if  they  don't  remember  you?'   said  Lottie 
snappishly.     *  You'll  learn  right  enough.     You  let 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  107 

'em  call  you  Vic.  Tell  'em  to.  You'll  be  all  right. 
And  get  yourself  a  black  business  dress.  We  supply 
pink  caps  and  aprons ;  charge  you  sixpence  a  week 
for  washing.  You  get  a  black  openwork  blouse, 
mind  you,  with  short  sleeves.  Nothing  like  it  to 
make  your  station.' 

'  What's  a  station  ? '  asked  Victoria,  more  be- 
wildered than  ever. 

'  My,  you  are  a  green  'un !  A  station's  your 
tables.  Five  you  get.  We'll  cut  'em  down  when 
they  begin  to  come  in.  What  you've  got  to  do 
is  to  pal  up  with  the  fellows ;  then  they'll  stick 
to  you,  see  ?  Regulars  is  what  you  want.  The  sort 
that  give  no  trouble  'cos  you  know  their  orders  right 
off  and  leave  their  twopence  like  clockwork,  see  ? 
But  never  you  mind :  you'll  learn.'  Thereupon 
Lottie  tactfully  pushed  Victoria  towards  the  door. 

Victoria  stepped  past  the  cleaner,  who  was  now 
washing  the  entrance.  Nothing  could  be  seen  of 
her  save  her  back  heaving  a  little  in  a  filthy  blue 
bodice  and  her  hands,  large,  red,  ribbed  with  flowing 
rivulets  of  black  dirt  and  water.  As  her  left  hand 
swung  to  and  fro,  Victoria  saw  upon  the  middle 
finger  the  golden  strangle  of  a  wedding  ring  deep  in 
the  red  cavity  of  the  swollen  flesh. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

*  You  come  back  with  me,  Vic,  don't  you  ?  * 

*  You  silly,'  said  Victoria,  witheringly,  '  I  don't  go 
off  to-day,  Gertie,  worse  luck.' 

'Worse  luck!  I  don't  think,'  cried  Gertie.  Til 
swap  with  you,  if  you  like.  As  if  yer  didn't  know 
it's  settling  day.  Why  there's  two  and  a  kick 
in  it ! ' 

'Shut  it,'  remarked  a  fat,  dark  girl,  placidly 
helping  herself  to  potatoes,  '  some  people  make  a 
sight  too  much  out  of  settling  day.' 

*  Perhaps  yer'll  tell  me  wot  yer  mean,  Miss  Prodgitt,' 
snarled  Gertie,  her  brown  eyes  flashing,  her  cockney 
accent  attaining  a  heroic  pitch. 

'  What  I  say,'  remarked  Miss  Prodgitt,  with  the 
patronising  air  that  usually  accompanies  this  en- 
lightening answer. 

'Ho,  indeed,'  snapped  Gertie,  'then  p'raps  yer'll 
keep  wot  yer've  got  ter  sye  to  yersel,  Miss  Prodgitt.' 

The  fat  girl  opened  her  mouth,  then,  changing 
her  mind,  turned  to  Victoria  and  informed  her 
that  the  weather  was  very  cold  for  the  time  of  the 
year. 

'That'll  do,  Gertie,'  remarked  Lottie,  'you  leave 
Bella  alone  and  hook  it.' 

Gertie  glowered  for  a  moment,  wasted  another 
look  of  scorn  on  her  opponent  and  flounced  out  of 
the  room  into  a  cupboard-like  dark  place,  whence 
issued  soimds  like  the  growl  of  an  angry  cat.  Some- 
thing had  obviously  happened  to  her  hat. 

io8 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  109 

Victoria  looked  round  aimlessly.  She  had  no 
appetite  ;  for  half-past  three,  the  barbarous  lunch  hour 
of  the  Rosebud  girls,  seemed  calculated  to  limit  the 
food  bill.  By  her  side  Bella  was  conscientiously 
absorbing  the  potatoes  that  her  daintier  companions 
had  left  over  from  the  Irish  stew.  Lottie  was  deeply 
engrossed  in  a  copy  of  London  Opinion,  left  behind 
by  a  customer.  Victoria  surveyed  the  room,  almost 
absolutely  bare  save  in  the  essentials  of  chairs  and 
tables.  It  was  not  unsightly,  excepting  the  fact  that 
it  was  probably  swept  now  and  then  but  never 
cleaned  out.  Upon  the  wall  opposite  was  stuck  a 
penny  souvenir  which  proclaimed  the  fact  that  the 
Emperor  of  Patagonia  had  lunched  at  the  Guildhall. 
By  its  side  hung  a  large  looking  glass  co-operatively 
purchased  by  the  staff.  Another  wall  was  occupied 
by  pegs  on  which  hung  sundry  dust  coats  and  feather 
boas,  mostly  smart.  Gertie,  in  the  corner,  was  still 
fumbling  in  the  place  known  as  '  Heath's '  because  it 
represented  the  *  Hatterie.'  It  was  a  silent  party 
enough,  this ;  even  the  two  other  girls  on  duty 
downstairs  would  not  have  increased  the  animation 
much.  Victoria  sat  back  in  her  chair,  and,  glancing 
at  the  little  watch  she  carried  on  her  wrist  in  a 
leather  strap,  saw  she  still  had  ten  minutes  to 
think. 

Victoria  watched  Gertie,  who  had  come  out  of 
*  Heath's '  and  was  poising  her  hat  before  the  glass. 
She  was  a  neat  little  thing,  round  everywhere,  trim 
in  the  figure,  standing  well  on  her  toes  ;  her  brown 
hair  and  eyes,  pursed  up  little  mouth,  small,  sharp 
nose,  all  spoke  of  briskness  and  self-confidence. 

'  Quarter  to  four,  doin'  a  bunk,'  she  remarked 
generally  over  her  shoulder. 

'  Mind  Butty  doesn't  catch  you,'  said  Victoria. 

*  Oh,  he's  all  right,'  said  Gertie,  '  we're  pals.' 

Fat  Bella,  chewing  the  cud  at  the  table,  shot 
a  malevolent  glance  at  her.     Gertie  took  no  notice  of 


no  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

her,  tied  on  her  veil  with  a  snap,  and  collected  her 
steel  purse,  parasol,  and  long  white  cotton  gloves. 

*Bye,  everybody,'  she  said,  *be  good.  Bye,  Miss 
Prodgitt ;  wish  yer  luck  with  yer  perliceman,  but  you 
take  my  tip  ;  all  what  glitters  isn't  coppers.' 

Before  Miss  Prodgitt  could  find  a  retort  to  this 
ruthless  exposure  of  her  idyll,  Gertie  had  vanished 
down  the  stairs.  Lottie  dreamily  turned  to  the  last 
page  of  London  Opinion  and  vainly  attempted  to 
sound  the  middle  of  her  back ;  she  was  clearly  dis- 
turbed by  the  advertisement  of  a  patent  medicine. 
Victoria  watched  her  amusedly. 

They  were  not  bad  sorts,  any  of  them.  Lottie,  in 
her  sharp  way,  had  been  a  kindly  guide  in  the  early 
days,  explained  the  meaning  of  '  checks,'  shown  her 
how  to  distinguish  the  inflexion  on  the  word  *  bill,'  that 
tells  whether  a  customer  wants  the  bill  of  fare  or  the 
bill  of  costs,  imparted  too  the  wonderful  mnemonics 
which  enable  a  waitress  to  sort  four  simultaneous 
orders.  Gertie,  the  only  frankly  common  member  of 
the  staff,  barked  ever  but  bit  never.  As  for  Bella, 
poor  soul,  she  represented  neutrality.  The  thread  of 
her  life  was  woven  ;  she  would  marry  her  policeman 
when  he  got  his  stripe,  and  bear  him  dull  company  to 
the  grave.  Gertie  would  no  doubt  look  after  herself. 
Not  being  likely  to  marry,  she  might  keep  straight 
and  end  as  a  manageress,  probably  save  nothing  and 
end  in  the  workhouse,  or  go  wrong  and  live  somehow, 
and  then  die  as  quickly  as  a  robin  passing  from  the 
sunshine  to  the  darkness.  Lottie  was  a  greater 
problem;  in  her  intelligence  lay  danger;  she  had 
imagination,  which  in  girls  of  her  class  is  a  perilous 
possession.  Her  enthusiasm  might  take  her  any- 
where, but  very  much  more  likely  to  misery  than  to 
happiness.  However,  as  she  was  visibly  weak-chested, 
Victoria  took  comfort  in  the  thought  that  the  air  of 
the  undergi-ound  smoking-room  would  some  day 
settle  her  troubles. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  m 

Victoria  did  not  follow  up  her  own  line  of  life  because 
as  for  all  young  things,  there  was  no  end  for  her — 
nothing  but  mist  ahead,  with  a  rosy  tinge  in  it. 
SuflBcient  was  it  that  she  was  in  receipt  of  a  fairly 
regular  income,  not  exactly  overworked,  neither 
happy  nor  miserable.  Apart  from  the  two  hours 
rush  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  there  was 
nothing  to  worry  her.  After  two  months  she  had 
worked  up  a  fair  connection  ;  she  could  not  rival  the 
experienced  Lottie,  nor  even  Gertie  whose  forward 
little  ways  always  '  caught  on,'  but  she  kept  up  an 
average  of  some  fourteen  shillings  a  week  in  tips. 
Thus  she  scored  over  Gladys  and  Cora,  whose  looks 
and  manners  were  unimpressive,  lymphatic  Bella 
being  of  course  outclassed  by  everybody.  Twenty- 
one  and  six  a  week  was  none  too  much  for  Victoria, 
whose  ideas  of  clothes  were  fatally  upper  middle 
class ;  good,  and  not  too  cheap.  StiU,  she  was 
enough  of  her  class  to  live  within  her  income,  and 
even  add  a  shilling  now  and  then  to  her  little  hoard. 

A  door  opened  downstairs.  '  Four  o'clock ! ' 
Come  down !  Vic !  Bella !  Lottie !  Vat  are  you 
doing?  gn?' 

Bella  jumped  up  in  terror,  her  fat  cheeks  quivering 
like  jelly.  '  Coming,  Mr  Stein,  coming,'  she  cried, 
making  for  the  stairs.  Victoria  followed  more 
slowly.  Lottie,  secure  in  her  privileges  as  head 
waitress,  did  not  move  until  she  heard  the  door 
below  slam  behind  them. 

Victoria  lazily  made  for  her  tables.  They  were 
unoccupied  save  by  a  youth  of  the  junior  clerk  type. 

'  Small  tea  toasted  scone.  Miss,'  said  the  monarch 
with  an  approving  look  at  Victoria's  eyes.  As  she 
turned  to  execute  his  order  he  threw  himself  back  in 
the  bamboo  arm  chair.  He  joined  his  ten  finger  tips, 
and,  crossing  his  legs,  negligently  displayed  a  purple 
sock.  He  retained  this  attitude  until  the  return  of 
Victoria. 


112  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*Kyou/,she  said,  depositing  his  cup  before  him. 
She  had  uiiconsciously  acquired  this  incomprehensible 
habit  of  waitresses. 

The  young  man  availed  himself  of  the  wait  for  the 
scone  to  inform  Victoria  that  it  was  a  cold  day. 

*We  don't  notice  it  here,'  she  said  graciously 
enough. 

*  Hot  place,  eh,'  said  the  customer  with  a  wink. 
Victoria  smiled.     In  the  early  days  she  would  have 

snubbed  him,  but  she  had  heard  the  remark  before 
and  had  a  stereotyped  answer  ready  which,  with  a 
new  customer,  invariably  earned  her  a  reputation 
for  wit. 

'  Oh,  the  hotter  the  fewer.'  She  smiled  negligently, 
moving  away  towards  the  counter.  When  she  returned 
with  the  scone,  the  youth  held  out  his  hand  for  the 
plate,  and,  taking  it,  touched  the  side  of  hers  with 
his  fmger  tips.  She  gave  him  a  faint  smile  and  sat 
down  a  couple  of  yards  away  on  a  chair  marked 
'Attendant.' 

The  youth  congratulated  her  upon  the  prettiness 
of  the  place.  Victoria  helped  him  through  his  scone 
by  agreeing  with  him  generally.  She  completed  her 
conquest  by  lightly  touching  his  shoulder  as  she 
gave  him  his  check. 

*  Penny  ? '  asked  Bella,  as  the  youth  gone,  Victoria 
slipped  her  fingers  under  the  cup. 

'  Gent,'  replied  Victoria,  displaying  three  coppers. 
Bella  sighed.     '  You've  got  all  the  luck,  don't  often 
get  a  twopenny  ;  never  had  a  gent  in  my  life.' 

*  I  don't  wonder  you  don't,'  said  Cora  from  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  *  looking  as  pleasant  as  if  you  were 
being  photographed.  You  got  to  give  the  boys  some 
sport.' 

Bella  sighed,  'It's  all  very  well,  Cora,  I'm  an 
ugly  one,  that's  what  it  is.' 

*  Get  out ;  I'm  not  a  blooming  daisy.  Try  washing 
your  hair  .  .  .* 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  113 

'It's  wrong,'  interposed  Bella  ponderously. 

'  Oil,  shut  it.  Miss  Prodgitt,  I've  no  patience  with 
you.' 

Cora  walked  away  to  the  counter  where  Gladys 
was  brewing  tea.  There  was  a  singular  similarity 
between  these  two ;  both  were  short  and  plump ; 
both  used  henna  to  bring  their  hair  up  to  a  certain 
hue  of  redness ;  both  had  complexions  obviously  too 
dark  for  the  copper  of  their  locks,  belied  as  it 
was  already  by  their  brown  eyes.  Indeed  their  re- 
semblance frequently  created  trouble,  for  each 
maintained  that  the  other  ruined  her  trade  by 
making  her  face  cheap. 

*  Can't  help  it  if  you've  got  a  cheap  face,'  was  the 
invariable  answer  from  either,  '  You  go  home  and 
come  back  when  the  rhubarb's  out,'  usually  served  as 
a  retort. 

The  July  afternoon  oozed  away.  It  was  cool ; 
now  and  then  an  effluvium  of  tea  came  to  Victoria, 
mingled  with  the  scent  of  toast.  Now  and  then  too 
the  rumble  of  a  dray  or  the  clatter  of  a  hansom  filtered 
into  the  dullness.     Victoria  almost  slept. 

The  inner  door  opened.  A  tall,  stout,  elderly  man 
entered,  throwing  a  savage  glance  round  the  shop. 
There  was  a  little  stir  among  the  girls.  Bella's 
rigidity  increased  tenfold.  Cora  and  Gladys  suddenly 
stopped  talking.  Alone  Victoria  and  Lottie  seemed 
unconcerned  at  the  entrance  of  Butty,  for  'Butty' 
it  was. 

'  Butty,'  otherwise  Mr  Burton,  the  chairman  of 
'  Rosebud,  Ltd.,'  continued  to  glare  theatrically. 
He  wore  a  blue  suit  of  a  crude  tint,  a  check  black 
and  white  waistcoat,  a  soft  fronted  brown  shirt  and, 
set  in  a  shilling  poplin  tie,  a  large  black  pearl. 
Under  a  grey  bowler  set  far  back  on  his  head  his 
forehead  sloped  away  to  his  wispy  greying  hair.  His 
nose  was  large  and  veined,  his  cheeks  pendulous  and 
touched  with  rosacia ;  his  hanging  underlip  revealed 
H 


it4  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

yellow  teeth.  The  heavy  dullness  of  his  face  was 
somewhat  relieved  by  his  little  blue  eyes,  piercing 
and  sparkling  like  those  of  a  snake.  His  face  was 
that  of  a  man  who  is  looking  for  faults  to  correct. 

Mr  Burton  strode  through  the  shop  to  the  counter 
where  Cora  and  Gladys  at  once  assumed  an  air  of 
rectitude  while  he  examined  the  cash  register.  Then, 
without  a  word,  he  returned  towards  the  doorway, 
sweeping  Lottie's  tables  with  a  discontented  glance, 
and  came  to  a  stop  before  one  of  Bella's  tables. 

*  What's  this?  what  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  this  ? ' 
thundered  Butty,  pointing  to  a  soiled  plate  and  cup. 

'  Oh,  sir,  I'm  sorry,  I  .  .  .'  gasped  Bella,  '  1  .  .  .' 

*  Now  look  here,  my  girl,'  hissed  Butty,  savagely, 
*  don't  you  give  me  any  of  your  lip.  If  I  ever  find 
anything  on  a  table  of  yours  thirty  seconds  after  a 
customer's  gone,  it's  the  sack.     Take  it  from  me.' 

He  walked  to  the  steps  and  descended  into  the 
smoking-room.  Cora  and  Gladys  went  into  fits  of 
silent  mirth,  pointing  at  poor  Bella.  Lottie,  uncon- 
cerned as  ever,  vainly  tried  to  extract  interest  from 
the  shop  copy  of  '  What's  On.' 

*  Victoria,'  came  Butty's  voice  from  below.  *  Where's 
Mr  Stein?    Comedown.' 

*  He's  washing,  sir,'  said  Victoria,  bending  over  the 
banisters. 

'  Oh,  washing  is  he  ?  first  time  I've  caught  him  at 
it,*  came  the  answer  with  vicious  jocularity.  '  Here's 
a  nice  state  of  things  ;  come  down.' 

Victoria  went  down  the  steps. 

*  Now  then,  why  aren't  these  salt  cellars  put  away  ? 
It's  your  job  before  you  come  up.' 

*  If  you  please,  sir,  it's  settling  day,'  said  Victoria 
quietly,  *  we  open  this  room  again  at  six.' 

*  Oh,  yes,  s'pose  you're  right.  I  don't  blame  you. 
Never  have  to,'  said  Butty  grudgingly,  then 
ingratiatingly. 

*  No,  sir,'  said  Victoria. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  iiS 

'No,  you're  not  like  the  others,'  said  Butty 
negligently  coming  closer  to  her. 

Victoria  smiled  respectfully,  but  edged  a  little 
away.  Butty  eyed  her  narrowly,  his  lips  smiling 
and  a  little  moist.  Then  his  hand  suddenly  shot 
out  and  seized  her  by  the  arm,  high  up,  just  under 
the  short  sleeve. 

'  You're  a  nice  girl,'  he  said,  looking  into  her  ejes. 

Victoria  said  nothing,  but  tried  to  free  herself. 
She  tried  harder  as  she  felt  on  her  forearm  the  moist 
warmth  of  the  ball  of  Butty's  thmnb  softly  caressing  it. 

'  Let  me  go,  sir,'  she  whispered, '  they  can  see  you 
through  the  banisters.' 

'  Never  you  mind,  Vic,'  said  Butty  drawing  her 
towards  him. 

Victoria  slipped  from  his  grasp,  ran  to  the  stairs, 
but  remembered  to  climb  them  in  a  natural  and 
leisurely  manner. 

'  Cool,  very  cool,'  said  Butty,  approvingly,  '  fine 
girl,  fine  girl.'  He  passed  his  tongue  over  his  lips, 
which  had  suddenly  gone  dry. 

When  Victoria  returned  to  her  seat  Lottie  had  not 
moved  ;  Bella  sat  deep  in  her  own  despair,  but,  behind 
the  counter,  Cora  and  Gladys  were  fixing  two  stem 
pairs  of  eyes  upon  the  favourite. 


CHAPTER  XV 

'  Yes,  sir,  yes  sir ;  I've  got  your  order,'  cried  Victoria 
to  a  middle  aged  man,  whose  face  reddened  with 
every  minute  of  waiting.  *  Steak,  sir?  Yes,  sir, 
that'll  be  eight  minutes.  And  sautees,  yes  sir. 
Gladys,  send  Dicky  up  to  four.  What  was  yours, 
sir  ?  Wing  twopence  extra.  No  bread  ?  Oh,  sorry, 
sir,  thought  you  said  Worcester.' 

Victoria  dashed  away  to  the  counter.  This  was 
the  busy  hour.  In  her  brain  a  hurtle  of  food  stuffs 
and  condiments  automaticall}'^  sorted  itself  out. 

*Now  then,  hurry  up  with  that  chop,'  she  snapped, 
thrusting  her  head  almost  through  the  kitchen  window. 

*  'Oo  are  you,'  growled  the  cook  over  her  shoulder. 
'  Empress  of  Germany?  I  don't  think.' 

*  Oh,  shut  it,  Maria,  hand  it  over ;  now  then  Cora, 
where  you  pushing  to  ? '  Victoria  edged  Cora  back 
from  the  window,  seized  the  chop  and  rushed  back  to 
her  tables. 

The  bustle  increased  ;  it  was  close  on  one  o'clock, 
an  hour  when  the  slaves  drop  their  oars,  and  for  a 
while  leave  the  thwarts  of  many  groans.  The 
Rosebud  had  nearly  filled  up.  Almost  every  table 
was  occupied  by  young  men,  most  of  them  reading 
a  paper  propped  up  against  a  cruet,  some  a  Temple 
Classic,  its  pages  kept  open  by  the  weight  of  the  plate 
edge.  A  steady  hum  of  talk  came  from  those  who  did 
not  read,  and,  mingled  with  the  clatter  of  knives  and 
forks,  produced  that  atmosphere  of  mongrel  sound 
that  floats  into  the  ears  like  a  restless  wave. 

xi6 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  n7 

Victorfa  stepped  briskly  between  the  tables,  collect- 
ing orders,  deftly  making  out  bill  after  bill,  smootbing 
tempers  ruflBed  here  and  there  by  a  wrongful  attribu- 
tion of  food. 

'  Yes  sir,  cutlets.     No  veg?     Cauli  ?    Yes  sir.' 

She  almost  ran  up  and  down  as  half-past  one  struck 
and  the  young  men  asked  for  coffees,  small  coffees, 
small  blacks,  china  teas.  From  time  to  time  she 
could  breathe  and  linger  for  some  seconds  by  a 
youth  who  audaciously  played  with  the  pencil  and 
foil  suspended  from  her  waist.  Or  she  exchanged  a 
pleasantry. 

'Now  then,  Nevy,  none  of  your  larks.'  Victoria 
turned  round  sharply  and  caught  a  hand  engaged  in 
forcing  a  piece  of  sugar  into  her  belt. 

Nevy,  otherwise  Neville  Brown,  laughed  and  held 
her  hand  the  space  of  a  second.  *  I  love  my  love  with 
a  V  ,  .  .'  he  began,  looking  up  at  her,  his  blue  eyes 
shining. 

'  Chuck  it  or  I'll  tell  your  mother,'  said  Victoria, 
smiling  too.  She  withdrew  her  hand  and  turned 
away. 

'  Oh,  I  say,  Vic,  don't  go,  wait  a  bit,'  cried  Neville, 
'  I  want,  now  what  did  I  want  ?  ' 

*  Sure  I  don't  know,'  said  Victoria,  *  you  never  said 
what  you  wanted.  Want  me  to  make  up  your  mind 
for  you  ? ' 

*  Do,  Vic,  let  our  minds  be  one,'  said  Neville. 
Victoria  looked  at  him  approvingly.     Neville  Brown 

deserved  the  nickname  of  '  Beauty,'  which  had  clung 
to  him  since  he  left  school.  Brown  wavy  hair, 
features  so  clean  cut  as  to  appear  almost  effeminate, 
a  broad  pointed  jaw,  all  combined  to  make  him 
the  schoolgirl's  dream.  Set  off  by  his  fair  and 
slightly  sunburnt  face,  his  blue  eyes  sparkled  with 
mischief. 

'Well,  then,  special  and  cream.  Sixpence  and 
serve  you  right/ 


ii8  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

She  laughed  and  stepped  briskly  away  to  the 
counter. 

'You're  in  luck,  Beauty,'  said  his  neighbour  with 
a  sardonic  air. 

*  Oh,  it's  no  go,  James,'  replied  Brown,  '  straight  as 
they  make  them.' 

'  Don't  say  she's  not.  But  if  I  weren't  a  married 
man,  I'd  go  for  her  baldheaded.' 

*  Guess  you  would,  Jimmy,'  said  Beauty,  laughing, 
*  but  you'd  be  wasting  your  time.  You  wouldn't  get 
anything  out  of  her.' 

'Don't  you  be  too  sure,'  said  Jimmy  meaningly. 
He  passed  his  hand  reflectively  over  his  shaven  lips. 

*  Well,  well,'  said  Brown,  *  p'raps  I'm  not  an  Apollo 
like  you,  Jimmy.' 

Jimmy  smiled  complacently.  He  was  a  tall  slim 
youth,  well  groomed  about  the  head,  doggy  about 
the  collar  and  tie,  neatly  dressed  in  Scotch  tweed. 
His  steady  grey  eyes  and  firm  mouth,  a  little  set  and 
rigid,  the  impeccability  of  all  about  him,  had  stamped 
business  upon  his  face  as  upon  his  clothes. 

'  Oh,  I  can't  queer  youi-  pitch,  Beauty,'  he  said  a 
little  grimly.     '  I  know  you,  you  low  dog.' 

Beauty  laughed  at  the  epithet.  '  You've  got  no 
poetry  about  you,  you  North  Country  chaps,  when  a 
girl's  as  lovely  as  Victoria — ' 

*  As  lovely  as  Victoria,'  he  repeated  a  little  louder 
as  Victoria  laid  the  cup  of  coffee  before  him. 

'I  know  all  about  that,'  said  Victoria  coolly,  'you 
don't  come  it  over  me  like  that,  Nevy.' 

'Cruel,  cruel  girl,'  sighed  Neville.  'Ah,  if  you 
only  knew  what  I  feel ' 

Victoria  put  her  hand  on  the  tablecloth  and,  for 
a  moment,  looked  down  into  Neville's  blue  eyes. 

'  You  oughtn't  to  be  allowed  out,'  she  pronounced, 
'  you  aren't  safe.' 

Jimmy  got  up  as  if  he  had  been  sitting  on  a 
suddenly  released  spring. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  119 

*  Spoon  away  both  of  you,'  lie  said  smoothly,  '  I'm 
going  over  to  Parsons'  to  buy  a  racquet.  Ooming, 
Beauty  ?  No,  thought  as  much.  Ta-ta,  Vic.  Excuse 
me.  Steak  and  kidney  pie  is  tenpence,  not  a  shilling. 
Cheer  oh !  Beauty.' 

'He's  a  rum  one,'  said  Victoria,  reflectively,  as 
Jimmy  passed  the  cash  desk. 

'Jimmy?  oh,  he's  all  right,'  said  Neville,  'but 
look  here  Vic,  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Let's  go  on 
the  bust  to-night.  Dinner  at  the  New  Gaiety  and 
the  theatre.     What  d'you  think  ? ' 

Victoria  looked  at  him  for  a  second, 

'You  are  a  cure,  Nevy,'  she  said. 

'  Then  that's  a  bargain  ? '  said  Brown,  eagerly 
snapping  up  her  non-refusal.  '  Meet  me  at  Strand 
Tube  Station  half-past  seven.  You're  off  to-night, 
I  know.' 

'  Oh  you  know,  do  you,'  said  Victoria  smiling. 
'  Been  pumping  Bella  I  suppose,  like  the  rest.  She's 
a  green  one,  that  girl.' 

Neville  looked  up  at  her  appealingly.  'Never 
mind  how  I  know,'  he  said,  '  say  you'll  come,  we'll 
have  a  ripping  time.' 

'  Well,  p'raps  I  will  and  p'raps  I  won't,'  said 
Victoria.     '  Your  bill.  Sir  ?     Yessir.' 

Victoria  went  to  the  next  table.  While  she 
wrote  she  exchanged  chaff  with  the  customers.  One 
had  not  raised  his  eyes  from  his  book ;  one  stood 
waiting  for  his  bill ;  the  other  two,  creatures  about 
to  be  men,  raised  languid  eyes  from  their  coffee  cups. 
One  negligently  puffed  a  jet  of  tobacco  smoke 
upwards  towards  Victoria. 

'  Rotten,'  she  said  briefly,  '  I  see  you  didn't  buy 
those  up  West.* 

'  That's  what  you  think,  Vic,'  said  the  youth,  *  fact 
is  I  got  them  in  the  Burlington.     Have  one  ? ' 

'No  thanks.     Don't  want  to  be  run  in.' 

'  Have  a  match  then.'     The  young  man  held  up  a 


I20  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

two  inch  vesta.     *  What  price  that,  eh  ?  pinched  'em 
from  the  Troc'  last  night.' 

*  You  are  a  toff,  Bertie,'  said  Victoria  with  unction. 
'  I'll  have  it  as  a  keepsake.'  She  took  it  and  stuck  it 
in  her  belt. 

Bertie  leaned  over  to  his  neighbour.  *  It's  a  mash,' 
he  said  confidently. 

'  Take  her  to  Kew,'  said  his  friend,  '  next  stop 
Brighton.' 

*  Can't  run  to  it,  old  cock,'  said  the  youth.  *  How- 
ever we  shall  see.' 

*  Vic,  Vic,'  whispered  Neville.  But  Victoria  had 
passed  him  quickly  and  was  answering  Mr  Stein. 

*Vat  you  mean  by  it,'  he  growled,  'making  de 
gentleman  vait  for  his  ticket,  gn  ? ' 

*  Beg  your  pardon,  Mr  Stein,  I  did  nothing  of  the 
kind.  The  gentleman  was  making  me  wait  while  he 
talked  to  his  friend.' 

Victoria  could  now  lie  coolly  and  well.  Stein  looked 
at  her  savagely  and  slowly  walked  away  along  the 
gangway  between  the  tables,  glowering  from  right  to 
left,  looking  managerially  for  possible  complaints. 

Victoria  turned  back  from  the  counter.  There, 
behind  the  coffee  urn  where  Cora  presided,  stood 
Burton,  in  his  blue  suit,  tiny  beads  of  perspiration 
appearing  on  his  forehead.  His  little  blue  eyes  fixed 
themselves  upon  her  like  drills  seeking  in  her  being 
the  line  of  least  resistance  where  he  could  deliver  his 
attack.  She  almost  fled,  as  if  she  had  seen  a  snake, 
every  facet  of  her  memory  causing  the  touch  of  his 
hot  warm  hand  to  materialise. 

*  Vic,'  said  Neville's  voice  softly  as  she  passed, '  is 
it  yes?' 

She  looked  down  at  the  handsome  face. 
'Yes,   Beauty  Boy,'   she   whispered,  and  walked 
away. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

'Silly  ass,'  remarked  Victoria  angrily.  She  threw 
Edward's  letter  on  the  table.  Unconsciously  she 
spoke  the  '  Rosebud '  language,  for  contact  had  had 
its  eifect  upon  her ;  she  no  longer  awoke  with  a  start 
to  the  fact  that  she  was  speaking  an  alien  tongue,  a 
tongue  she  would  once  have  despised. 

Edward  had  expressed  his  interest  in  her  welfare  in 
a  letter  of  four  pages  covered  with  his  thin  writing, 
every  letter  of  which  was  legible  and  sloped  at  the 
proper  angle.  He  *  considered  it  exceedingly  undesir- 
able for  her  to  adopt  a  profession  such  as  that  of 
waitress.'  It  was  comforting  to  know  that  *he  was 
relieved  to  see  that  she  had  the  common  decency 
to  change  her  name,  and  he  trusted.  .  .  .'  Here 
Victoria  had  stopped. 

'  I  can't  bear  it,'  she  said.  *  I  can't,  can't,  can't. 
Twopenny  little  schoolmaster  lecturing  me,  me 
who've  got  to  earn  every  penny  I  get  by  fighting 
for  it  in  the  dirt,  so  to  say.'  Every  one  of  Edward's 
features  came  up  before  her  eyes,  his  straggling  fair 
hair,  his  bloodless  face,  his  fumbling  ineffective 
hands.  This  pedagogue  who  had  stepped  from 
scholardom  to  teacherdom  dared  to  blame  or  eulogise 
the  steps  she  took  to  earn  her  living,  to  be  free  to 
live  or  die  as  she  chose.  It  was  preposterous.  What 
did  he  know  of  life  ? 

Victoria  seized  a  pen  and  feverishly  scribbled  on  a 
crumpled  sheet  of  paper. 

'  My  dear  Edward, — What  I  do's  my  business.    I've 


133  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

got  to  live  and  I  can't  choose.  And  you  can  be  sure 
that  so  long  as  I  can  keep  myself  I  shan't  come  to  you 
for  help  or  advice.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  what 
freedom  is,  never  having  had  any.  But  I  do  and  I'm 
going  to  keep  it  even  if  it  costs  me  the  approval  of 
you  people  who  sit  at  home  comfortably  and  judge 
people  like  me  who  want  to  be  strong  and  free.  But 
what's  the  good  of  talking  about  freedom  to  you. — 
Your  affectionate  sister, 

Victoria. 
She  addressed  the  envelope  and  ran  out  hatless  to 
post  it  at  the  pillar  box  in  Edgware  Road.  As 
she  crossed  the  road  homewards  a  horse  bus  rumbled 
by.  It  carried  an  enormous  advertisement  of  the 
new  musical  comedy  The  Teapot  Girl.  *  A  fine  comedy 
indeed,'  she  thought,  suddenly  a  little  weary. 

As  she  entered  her  room,  where  a  small  oil  lamp 
diffused  a  sphere  of  graduated  light,  she  was  seized 
as  by  the  throat  by  the  oppression  of  the  silent 
summer  night.  The  wind  had  fallen;  not  even  a 
whirl  of  dust  stirred  in  the  air.  Alone  and  far  away 
a  piano  organ  in  a  square  droned  and  clanked  Italian 
melody.  She  thought  of  Edward  and  of  her  letter. 
Perhaps  she  had  been  too  sharp.  Once  upon  a  time 
she  would  not  have  written  like  that :  she  was  getting 
common. 

Victoria  sat  down  on  a  little  chair,  her  hands 
clasped  together  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  looking  out  at 
the  blank  wall  opposite.  This,  nine  o'clock,  was  the 
fatal  hour  when  the  ghosts  of  her  dead  past  paced 
like  caged  beasts  up  and  down  in  her  small  room,  and 
the  wraith  of  the  day's  work  rattled  its  chains. 
There  had  been  earlier  times  when,  in  the  first  flush 
of  independence,  she  had  sat  down  to  gloat  over  what 
was  almost  success,  her  liberty,  her  living  earned  by 
her  own  efforts.  The  rosiness  of  freedom  then  wrapped 
aroimd  the  dinge  with  wreaths  of  fancy,  wreaths  that 
purled  incessantly   into    harmonious    shapes.      But 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  123 

Victoria  had  soon  plumbed  the  depths  of  speculation 
and  found  that  the  fire  of  imagination  needs  shadowy- 
fuel  for  its  shadowy  combustion.  Day  by  day  her 
brain  had  become  less  lissome.  Then,  instead  of 
thinking  for  the  joy  of  thought,  she  had  read  some 
fourpenny-halfpenny  novel,  a  paper  even,  picked  up 
in  the  Tube.  Her  mind  was  waking  up,  visualising, 
realising,  and  in  its  troublous  surgings  made  for 
something  to  cling  to  to  steady  itself.  But  months 
rolled  on  and  on,  inharmonious  in  their  sameness, 
unrelieved  by  anything  from  the  monotony  of  work 
and  sleep.  Certain  facts  meant  certain  things  and 
recurred  eternally  with  their  unchanging  meaning; 
the  knock  that  awoke  her,  a  knock  so  individual  and 
habitual  that  her  sleepy  brain  was  conscious  on 
Sundays  that  she  need  not  respond;  the  smell  of 
food  which  began  to  assail  her  faintly  as  she  entered 
the  'Rosebud,'  then  grew  to  pungency  and  reek  at 
midday,  blended  with  tobacco,  then  slowly  ebbed 
almost  into  nothingness :  the  dying  day  that  was 
grateful  to  her  eyes  when  she  left  to  go  home,  when 
things  looked  kindly  round  her. 

When  Victoria  realised  all  of  a  sudden  her  loneliness 
in  her  island  in  Star  Street,  something  like  the  fear  of 
the  hunted  had  driven  her  out  into  the  streets.  She 
was  afraid  to  be  alone,  for  not  even  books  could  save 
her  from  her  thoughts,  those  hounds  in  full  cry.  In 
such  moods  she  had  walked  the  streets  quickly, 
looking  at  nothing,  maintaining  lier  pace  over  hills. 
Now  and  then  she  had  suddenlj^  landed  on  a  slum, 
caught  sight  of,  all  beerj^  and  bloody,  through  the 
chink  of  a  black  lane.  But  she  shunned  the  flares, 
the  wet  pavement,  the  orange  peel  that  squelched 
beneath  her  boots,  afraid  of  the  sight  of  too  vigorous 
life.  Unconsciously  she  had  sought  the  drug  of 
weariness,  and  the  cunning  bred  of  her  dipsomania 
told  her  that  the  living  were  poor  companions  for  her 
soul.    And,  when  at  times  a  man  h^d  followed  her, 


134  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

his  eye  arrested  by  the  lines  of  her  face  lit  up  by 
a  gas  lamp,  he  had  soon  tired  of  her  quick  walk  and 
turned  away  towards  weaker  vessels. 

But  even  weariness,  when  abused,  loses  its  power 
as  a  sedative.  The  body,  at  once  hardened  and 
satiated,  demands  more  every  day  as  it  craves  for 
increasing  dozes  of  morphia,  for  more  food,  more 
drink,  more  kisses,  more,  ever  more.  Thus  Victoria 
had  reached  her  last  stage  when,  sitting  alone  in 
her  room,  she  once  more  faced  the  emptiness  where 
the  ghosts  of  her  dead  past  paced  like  caged 
beasts  and  the  wraith  of  the  day's  work  rattled  its 
chains. 

From  this,  now  a  state  of  mental  instead  of  physical 
exhaustion,  she  was  seldom  roused  ;  and  it  needed  an 
Edward  come  to  judgment  to  stir  her  sleepy  brain 
into  quick  passion.  Again  and  again  the  events  of 
the  day  would  chase  round  and  round  maddeningly 
with  every  one  of  their  little  details  sharp  as  crystals. 
Victoria  could  almost  mechanically  repeat  some 
conversations,  all  trifling,  similar,  confined  to  half  a 
dozen  topics ;  she  could  feel,  too,  but  casually  as  an 
odalisque,  the  hot  wave  of  desire  which  surrounded 
her  all  day,  evidenced  by  eyes  that  glittered,  fastened 
on  her  hands  as  she  served,  on  her  face,  the  curve  of 
her  neck,  her  breast,  her  hips ;  eyes  that  devoured 
and  divested  her  of  her  meretricious  livery.  And, 
worse  perhaps  than  that  big  primitive  surge  which 
left  her  cold  but  unangered,  the  futility  of  others  who 
bandied  with  her  the  daily  threadbare  joke,  who 
wearied  her  mind  with  questions  as  to  food,  com- 
pelled her  to  sympathise  with  the  vagaries  of  the 
weather  or  were  arch,  flirtatious  and  dragged  out  of 
her  tired  mind  the  necessary  response.  Even  Butty 
and  the  moist  warmth  of  him,  even  Stein  with  his 
flaccid  surly  face,  were  better  in  their  grossness  than 
these  vapid  youths,  thoughtless,  incapable  of  thought, 
incapable  of  imagining  thought,  who  set  her  down 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  laS 

as  an  inferior,  as  a  toy  for  games  that  were  not  even 
those  of  men. 

'  Beauty '  had  been  a  disappointment.  She  had 
met  him  two  or  thi*ee  times  since  their  first  evening 
out.  That  night  Neville,  who  was  a  young  man  of  the 
world,  had  pressed  his  suit  so  delicately,  preserving 
in  so  cat-like  a  manner  his  lines  of  retreat,  that  she 
had  not  been  able  to  snub  him  when  inclined  to.  He 
had  a  small  private  income  and  knew  how  to  make 
the  best  of  his  good  looks  by  means  of  gentle  manners 
and  smart  clothes.  In  the  insurance  office  where  he 
was  one  of  those  clerks  who  have  lately  evolved  from 
the  junior  stage,  he  was  nothing  in  particular  and 
earned  ten  pounds  a  month.  He  had  furnished  two 
rooms  on  the  Chelsea  edge  of  Kensington,  belonged  to 
an  inexpensive  club  in  St  James's,  had  been  twice 
to  Brussels  and  once  to  Paris ;  he  smoked  Turkish 
cigarettes,  deeming  Virginia  common  ;  he  subscribed 
to  a  library  in  connection  with  Mudie's,  and  knew 
enough  of  the  middle  classes  to  exaggerate  his  im- 
pression of  them  into  the  smart  set.  Perhaps  he  tried 
a  little  too  much  to  be  a  gentleman. 

Neville  Brown  was  strongly  attracted  to  Victoria. 
He  had  vainly  tried  to  draw  her  out,  and  scented  the 
lie  in  her  carefully  concocted  story.  He  knew  enough 
to  feel  that  she  was  at  heart  one  of  those  women  he 
met  '  in  society,'  perhaps  a  little  better.  Thus  she 
puzzled  him  extremely,  for  she  was  not  even  facile ; 
he  could  hold  her  hand ;  she  had  not  refused  him 
kisses,  but  he  was  afraid  to  secure  his  grip  on  her  as 
a  man  carrying  a  butterfly  stirs  not  a  finger  for  fear 
it  should  escape. 

Victoria  turned  all  this  over  lazily.  Her  instinct 
told  her  what  manner  of  man  was  Neville,  for  he 
hardly  concealed  his  desires.  Indeed  their  relations 
had  something  of  the  charm  of  a  masqued  ball.  She 
saw  well  enough  that  Neville  was  not  likely  to  remain 
content  with  kisses,  and  viewed  the  inevitable  battle 


136  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

with  mixed  feelings.  She  liked  him ;  indeed,  in 
certain  moods  and  when  his  blue  eyes  were  at  their 
bluest,  he  attracted  her  magnetically.  The  reminis- 
cent scent  of  Turkish  tobacco  on  her  lips  always  drew 
her  back  towards  him  ;  and  yet  she  was  of  her  class, 
shy  of  love,  of  all  that  is  illicit  because  unacknowledged. 
She  knew  very  well  that  Neville  would  hardly  ask  her 
to  marry  him  and  that  she  would  refuse  if  he  did ; 
she  knew  less  well  what  she  would  do  if  he  asked  her 
to  love  him.  When  she  analysed  their  relation  she 
always  found  that  all  lay  on  the  lap  of  the  gods. 

In  the  loneliness  of  night  her  thoughts  would  fasten 
on  him  more  intently.  He  was  youth  and  warmth  and 
friendliness,  words  for  the  silent,  a  hand  to  touch ; 
better  still  he  was  a  figment  of  Love  itself,  with  all 
its  tenderness  and  crudity,  its  heat,  all  the  quivers  of 
its  body  ;  he  was  soft  scented  as  the  mysterious  giver 
of  passionate  gifts.  So,  when  Victoria  lay  down  to 
try  and  sleep  she  rocked  in  the  trough  of  the  waves  of 
doubt.  She  could  not  tell  into  what  hands  she  would 
give,  if  she  gave,  her  freedom,  her  independence  of 
thought  and  deed,  all  that  security  which  is  dear  to 
the  sheltered  class  from  which  she  came.  So,  far  into 
the  night  she  would  struggle  for  sight,  tossing  from 
right  to  left  and  left  to  right,  thrusting  away  and 
then  recalling  the  brown  face,  the  blue  eyes  and 
their  promise. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

The  days  rolled  on,  and  on  every  one,  as  their  scroll 
revealed  itself,  Victoria  inscribed  doings  which  never 
varied.  The  routine  grew  heavier  as  she  found  that 
the  events  of  a  Monday  were  so  similar  to  those  of 
another  Monday  that  after  a  month  she  could  not 
locate  happenings.  She  no  longer  read  newspapers. 
There  was  nothing  in  them  for  her ;  not  even  the 
mock  tragedy  of  the  death  of  an  heir  presumptive  or 
the  truer  grimness  of  a  shipwreck  could  rouse  in  her 
an  emotion.  She  did  not  care  for  adventure  :  not 
because  she  thought  that  adventure  was  beneath  her 
notice,  but  because  it  could  not  affect  her.  A 
revolution  could  have  happened,  but  she  would 
have  served  boiled  cod  and  coffees  to  the  groundlings, 
wings  of  chicken  to  the  luxurious,  without  a  thought 
for  the  upheaval,  provided  it  did  not  flutter  the  pink 
curtains  beyond  which  hummed  the  world. 

At  times,  for  the  holiday  season  was  not  over  and 
work  was  rather  slack,  Victoria  had  time  to  sit  on  her 
*  attendant '  chair  and  to  think  awhile.  Reading 
nothing  and  seeing  no  one  save  Beauty  and  Mrs 
Smith,  she  was  thinking  once  more  and  thinking 
dangerously  much.  Often  she  would  watch  Lottie, 
negligently  serving,  returning  the  ball  of  futility  with 
a  carelessness  that  was  almost  grace,  or  Cora  talking 
smart  slang  in  young  lady-like  tones. 

'  To  what  end  ?  '  thought  Victoria.  '  What  are  we 
doing  here,  wasting  our  lives,  I  suppose,  to  feed  these 
boys.     For  what's  the  good  of  feeding  them  so  that 

"7 


128  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

they  may  scrawl  figures  in  books  and  catch  trains  and 
perhaps  one  day,  unless  they've  got  too  old,  marry 
some  dull  girl  and  have  more  children  than  they  can 
keep?  We  girls,  we're  wasted  too.'  So  strongly  did 
she  feel  this  that,  one  day,  she  prospected  the  unex- 
plored ground  of  Cora's  mind. 

*  What  are  you  worrying  about  ? '  remarked  Cora, 
after  Victoria  had  tried  to  inflame  her  with  noble 
discontent.  'I  don't  say  it's  all  honey,  this  job  of 
ours,  but  you  can  have  a  good  time  pretty  well  every 
night,  can't  you,  let  alone  Sundays  ?  ' 

'  But  I  don't  want  a  good  time,'  said  Victoria, 
suddenly  inspired.  *  I  want  to  feel  I'm  alive,  do 
something.' 

'  Do  what  ? '  said  Cora. 

'  Live,  see  things,  travel.* 

*  Oh,  we  don't  get  a  chance,  of  course,'  said  Cora. 
'  I'll  tell  you  how  it  is,  Vic,  you  want  too  much.  If 
you  want  anything  in  life  you've  got  to  want  nothing, 
then  whatever  you  get  good  seems  jolly  good.' 

*  You're  a  pessimist,  Cora,'  said  Victoria  smiling. 

'  Meaning  I  see  the  sad  side  ?  Don't  you  believe 
it.     Every  cloud  has  a  silver  lining,  you  know.' 

'  And  every  silver  lining  has  a  cloud,'  said  Victoria, 
sadly. 

'  Now,  Vic,'  answered  Cora  crossly, '  don't  you  go 
on  like  that.  You'll  only  mope  and  mope.  And 
what's  the  good  of  that,  I'd  like  to  know.' 

*  Oh,  I  don't  know,'  said  Victoria,  '  I  like  thinking 
of  things.  Sometimes  I  wish  I  could  make  an  end 
of  it.     Don't  you  ? ' 

'  Lord,  no,'  said  Cora,  '  I  make  the  best  of  it.  You 
take  my  tip  and  don't  think  too  much.' 

Victoria  bent  down  in  her  chair,  her  chin  upon  her 
open  palm.     Cora  slapped  her  on  the  back. 

*  Cheer  up,'  she  said,  *  we'll  soon  be  dead.' 
Victoria  had  also  attempted  Gladys,  but  had  dis- 
covered without  surprise  that  her  association  with 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  129 

Cora  had  equalised  tlieir  minds  as  well  as  the  copper 
of  their  hair.  Lottie  never  said  much  when  attacked 
on  a  general  subject,  while  Bella  never  said  anything 
at  all.  Since  the  day  when  Victoria  had  attempted 
to  draw  her  out  on  the  fateful  question  '  What's  the 
good  of  anything  ?  '  Bella  Prodgitt  had  looked  upon 
Victoria  as  a  dangerous  revolutionary.  At  times  she 
would  follow  the  firebrand  round  the  shop  with 
frightened  and  admiring  eyes.  For  her  Victoria 
was  something  like  the  brillant  relation  of  whom 
the  family  is  proud  without  daring  to  acknowledge 
liim. 

It  fell  to  Gertie's  lot  to  enlighten  Victoria  further 
on  the  current  outlook  of  life.  It  came  about  in  this 
way.  One  Saturday  afternoon  Victoria  and  Bella 
were  alone  on  duty  upstairs,  for  the  serving  of  lunch 
is  then  at  a  low  ebb  ;  the  City  makes  a  desperate 
effort  to  reach  the  edge  of  the  world  to  lunch  peace- 
fully and  cheaply  in  its  homes  and  lodgings.  Lottie 
and  Gertie  were  taking  the  smoking  room  below. 

It  was  nearly  three  o'clock.  At  one  of  the  larger 
tables  sat  two  men,  both  almost  through  with  their 
lunch.  The  elder  of  the  two,  a  stout,  cheery-looking 
man,  pushed  away  his  cup,  slipped  two  pennies  under 
the  saucer  and,  taking  up  his  bill,  which  Victoria 
had  made  out  when  she  gave  him  his  coffee,  went  up 
to  the  cash  desk.  The  other  man,  a  pale-faced  youth 
in  a  blue  suit,  sat  before  his  half  emptied  cup.  His 
hand  passed  nervously  round  his  chin  as  he  surveyed 
the  room ;  his  was  rather  the  face  of  a  ferret,  with 
a  long  upper  lip,  watery  blue  eyes,  and  a  weak  chin. 
His  forehead  sloped  a  little  and  was  decorated  with 
many  pimples. 

Victoria  passed  him  quickly,  caught  up  the  stout 
man,  entered  the  cash  desk  and  took  his  bill.  He 
turned  in  the  doorway. 

'Well,  Vic,'  he  said,  'when  are  we  going  to  be 
married  ? ' 


I30  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*29th  of  February,  if  it's  not  a  leap  year,*  she 
laughed. 

'  Too  bad,  too  bad,*  said  the  stout  man,  looking 
back  from  the  open  door  out  of  which  he  had  ah-eady 
passed,  '  you're  the  third  girl  who's  said  that  to  me 
in  a  fortnight.' 

'Serve  you  right,'  said  Victoria,  looking  into  the 
mirror  opposite,  *  you're  as  bad  as  Henry  the  .  .  .  .' 

The  door  closed.  Victoria  did  not  finish  her 
sentence.  Her  eyes  were  glued  to  the  mirror.  In 
it  she  could  only  see  a  young  man  with  a  thin  face, 
decorated  with  many-  pimples,  hurriedly  gulping 
down  the  remains  of  his  cup  of  cofEee.  But  a  second 
before  then  she  had  seen  something  which  made  her 
fetch  a  quick  breath.  The  young  man  had  looked 
round,  marked  that  her  head  was  turned  away ;  he 
had  thrown  a  quick  glance  to  the  right  and  the  left, 
to  the  counter  which  Bella  had  left  for  a  moment  to 
go  into  the  kitchen ;  then  his  hand  had  shot  out  and, 
with  a  quick  movement,  he  had  seized  the  stout 
man's  pennies  and  slipped  them  under  his  own 
saucer. 

The  young  man  got  up.  Victoria  came  up  to  him 
and  made  out  his  bill.  He  took  it  without  a  word 
and  paid  it  at  the  desk,  Victoria  taking  his  money. 

'  Well,  he  didn't  steal  it,  did  he  ? '  said  Gertie, 
when  Victoria  told  her  of  the  incident. 

'  No,  not  exactly.  Unless  he  stole  it  from  the  first 
man.' 

'  'Ow  could  he  steal  it  if  he  didn't  take  it  ? '  snapped 
Gertie. 

'  Well  he  made  believe  to  tip  me  when  he  didn't, 
and  he  made  believe  that  the  first  man  was  mean 
when  it  was  he  who  was,'  said  Victoria.  *  So  he  stole 
it  from  the  first  man  to  give  it  me.' 

'Lord,  I  don't  see  what  yer  after,'  said  Gertie. 
'You  ain't  lost  nothing.  And  the  first  fellow  he  ain't 
lost  nothing  either.    He'd  left  his  money.' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  131 

Victoria  struggled  for  a  few  sentences.  Tlie  little 
Cockney  brain  could  not  take  in  her  view.  Gertie 
could  only  see  that  Victoria  had  had  twopence  from 
somebody  instead  of  from  somebody  else,  so  what  was 
her  trouble  ? 

'  Tell  yer  wot,'  said  Gertie  summing  up  the  case, 
*  seems  ter  me  the  fellow  knew  wot  he  was  after. 
Dodgy  sort  of  thing  to  do.  Oughter  'ave  thought  of 
the  looking-glass  though.' 

Victoria  turned  away  from  Gertie's  crafty  little 
smile.  There  was  something  in  the  girl  that  she 
could  not  understand ;  nor  could  Gertie  understand 
her  scruple.  Gertie  helped  her  a  little  though  to 
solve  the  problem  of  waste ;  this  girl  could  hardly  be 
wasted,  thought  Victoria,  for  of  what  use  could  she 
be  ?  She  had  neither  the  fine  physique  that  enables 
a  woman  to  bear  big  stupid  sons,  nor  the  intelligence 
which  breeds  a  cleverer  generation  ;  she  was  sunk  in 
the  worship  of  easy  pleasure,  and  ever  bade  the 
fleeting  joy  to  tarry  yet  awhile. 

*  She  isn't  alive  at  all,'  said  Victoria  to  Lottie. 
'  She  merely  grows  older.' 

'  Well,  so  do  we,'  replied  Lottie  in  matter  of  fact 
tones. 

Victoria  was  compelled  to  admit  the  truth  of  this, 
but  she  did  not  see  her  point  clearly  enough  to 
state  it.  Lottie,  besides,  did  nothing  to  draw 
her  out.  In  some  ways  she  was  Victoria's  oasis  in 
the  desert,  for  she  was  simple  and  gentle,  but  her 
status  lymphaticus  was  permanent.  She  did  not 
even  dream. 

Victoria's  psychological  enquiries  did  not  tend  to 
make  her  popular.  The  verdict  of  the  '  Rosebud ' 
was  that  she  was  a  '  rum  one,'  perhaps  a  '  deep  one.' 
The  staff  were  confirmed  in  their  suspicions  that  she 
was  a  *  deep  one '  by  the  obvious  attentions  that  Mr 
Burton  paid  her.  They  were  not  prudish,  except 
Bella,  who  objected  to  '  goings  on ' ;  to  be  distinguished 


132  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

by  Butty  was  rather  disgusting,  but  it  was 
flattering  too. 

'He  could  have  anybody  he  liked,  the  dirty  old 
tyke,*  remarked  Cora.  '  Of  course  I'm  not  taking 
any,'  she  added  in  response  to  a  black  look  from 
Bella  Prodgitt. 

Victoria  was  not  'taking  any'  either,  but  she 
every  day  found  greater  difficulty  in  repelling  him. 
Burton  would  stand  behind  the  counter  near  the 
kitchen  door  during  the  lunch  hour,  and  whenever 
Victoria  had  to  come  up  to  it,  he  would  draw  closer, 
so  close  that  she  could  see  over  the  whites  of  his 
little  eyes  a  fine  web  of  blood  vessels.  Every  time 
she  came  and  went  her  skirts  brushed  against  his 
legs ;  on  her  neck  sometimes  she  felt  the  rush  of  his 
bitter  scented  breath. 

One  afternoon,  in  the  change  room,  as  she  was 
dressing  alone  to  leave  at  four,  the  door  opened. 
She  had  taken  off  her  blouse  and  turned  with  a  little 
cry.  Burton  had  come  in  suddenly.  He  walked 
straight  up  to  her,  his  eyes  not  fixed  on  hers  but  on 
her  bare  arms.  A  faintness  came  over  her.  She 
hardly  had  the  strength  to  repel  him,  as  without 
a  word  he  threw  one  arm  round  her  waist,  seizing 
her  above  the  elbow  with  his  other  hand.  As  he 
tried  to  draw  her  towards  him  she  saw  a  few  inches 
from  her  face,  just  the  man's  mouth,  red  and  wet, 
like  the  sucker  of  a  leech,  the  lips  parted  over  the 
yellow  teeth. 

*  Let  me  go ! '  she  hissed,  throwing  her  head  back. 
Burton  ground  her  against  him,  craning  his  neck 

to  touch  her  lips  with  his. 

'  Don't  be  silly,'  he  whispered,  '  I  love  you.  You 
be  my  little  girl.' 

*  Let  me  go.'     Victoria  shook  him  savagely. 
'None  of  that.'     Burton's  eyes  were  glittering. 

The  corners  had  pulled  upwards  with  rage. 

*  Let  me  go,  1  say.' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  133 

Burton  did  not  answer.  For  a  minute  they  wrestled. 
Victoria  thrust  him  back  against  the  wall.  She 
almost  turned  sick  as  his  hand,  slipping  round  her, 
flattened  itself  on  her  bare  shoulder.  In  that  moment 
of  weakness  Burton  won,  and,  bending  her  over, 
kissed  her  on  the  mouth.  She  struggled,  but  Burton 
had  gripped  her  behind  the  neck.  Three  times  he 
kissed  her  on  the  lips.  A  convulsion  of  disgust  and 
she  lay  motionless  in  his  embrace.  There  was  a  step 
on  the  stairs.  A  few  seconds  later  Burton  had 
slipped  out  by  the  side  door. 

'  What's  up  ? '  said  Gladys  suspiciously. 

Victoria  had  sunk  upon  a  chair,  breathless,  dis- 
hevelled, her  face  in  her  hands. 

'Nothing  ...  I  ...  I  feel  sick,'  she  faltered. 
Then  she  savagely  wiped  her  mouth  with  her 
feather  boa. 

Victoria  was  getting  a  grip  of  things.  The  brute, 
the  currish  brute.  The  words  rang  in  her  head  like 
a  chorus.  For  days,  the  memory  of  the  afEray  did 
not  leave  her.  She  guarded,  too,  against  any  recur- 
rence of  the  scene. 

Her  hatred  for  Burton  seemed  to  increase  the 
fascination  of  Neville.  She  did  not  think  of  them 
together,  but  it  always  seemed  to  happen  that, 
immediately  after  thrusting  away  the  toad-like 
picture  of  the  chairman,  she  thought  of  the  blue-eyed 
boy.  Yet  her  relations  with  Neville  were  ill-fated. 
Some  days  after  the  foul  incident  in  the  change  room, 
Neville  took  her  for  one  of  his  little  '  busts.'  As  it 
was  one  of  her  late  nights  he  called  for  her  at  a 
quarter  past  nine.  They  walked  towards  the  west 
and,  on  the  stroke  of  ten,  Neville  escorted  her  into 
one  of  the  enormous  restaurants  that  the  Refreshment 
Rendezvous,  known  to  London  as  the  Ah- Ah,  runs  as 
anonymously  as  it  may. 

Victoria  was  amused.  The  R.  R.  was  the  owner 
of  a  palace,  built,  if  not  for  the  classes,  certainly  not 


134  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

for  the  masses.  Its  facing  was  of  tortured  Portland 
stone,  where  Greek  columns,  Italian,  Louis  XIV  and 
Tudor  mouldings  blended  with  rich  Byzantine  gild- 
ings and  pre-Raphaelite  frescoes.  Inside  too,  it  was 
all  plush,  mainly  red  ;  gold  again  ;  palms,  fountains, 
with  goldfish  and  tin  ducks.  The  restaurant  was 
quite  a  fair  imitation  of  the  Carlton,  but  a  table 
d'hote  supper  was  provided  for  eighteen  pence, 
including  finger  bowls  in  which  floated  a  rose  petal. 

Neville  and  Victoria  sat  at  a  small  table  made  for 
two.  She  surrendered  her  feet  to  the  clasp  of  his. 
Around  her  were  about  two  hundred  couples  and  a 
hundred  family  parties.  Most  of  the  young  men 
were  elaborately  casual;  they  wore  blue  or  tweed 
suits,  a  few,  frock  coats  marred  by  double  collars ; 
they  had  a  tendency  to  loll  and  to  puff  the  insolent 
tobacco  smoke  of  virginias  towards  the  distant  roof. 
Their  young  ladies  talked  a  great  deal  and  looked 
about.  There  was  much  wriggling  of  chairs,  much 
giggling,  much  pulling  up  of  long  gloves  over  bare 
arms.  In  a  corner,  all  alone,  a  young  man  in  well- 
fitting  evening  clothes  was  consuming  in  melancholy 
some  chocolate  and  a  sandwich. 

NeviUe  plied  Victoria  with  the  major  part  of  a 
half  bottle  of  claret. 

'  Burgundy's  the  thing,'  he  said.  '  More  body 
in  it.' 

*  Yes,  it  is  good,  isn't  it  ?  I  mustn't  have  any  more, 
though.' 

*  Oh,  you're  all  right,'  said  Neville  indulgently. 
*  Let's  have  some  coffee  and  a  liqueur.' 

*  No,  no  liqueur  for  me.' 

*  Well,  coffee  then.     Here,  waiter.' 

Neville  struggled  for  some  minutes.  He  utterly 
failed  to  gain  the  ear  of  the  waiters. 

'Let's  go.  Beauty,'  said  Victoria.  *I  don't  want 
any  coffee.  No,  really,  I'd  rather  not.  I  can't  sleep 
if  I  take  it.' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  t35 

Tlie  couple  walked  up  Regent  Street,  tlien  along 
Piccadilly.  Neville  held  Victoria's  arm.  He  liad 
slipped  his  fingers  under  the  long  glove.  She  did 
not  withdraw  her  arm.  His  touch  tickled  her  senses 
to  quiescence  if  not  to  satisfaction.  They  turned 
into  the  Park.  Just  behind  the  statue  of  Achilles 
they  stepped  upon  the  grass  and  at  once  Neville  threw 
his  arm  round  Victoria.  It  was  a  little  chilly ;  mist 
was  rising  from  the  grass.  The  trees  stood  blackly 
out  of  it,  as  if  sawn  o£E  a  few  feet  from  the  ground. 
Neville  stopped.     A  little  smile  was  on  his  lips. 

*  Beauty  boy,'  said  Victoria. 

He  drew  her  towards  him  and  kissed  her.  He 
kissed  her  on  the  forehead,  then  on  the  cheek,  for 
he  was  a  sybarite,  in  matters  of  love  something  of  an 
artist,  just  behind  the  ear,  then  passionately  on  the 
lips.  Victoria  closed  her  eyes  and  threw  one  arm 
round  his  neck.  She  felt  exhilarated,  as  if  gently 
warmed.  They  walked  further  westwards,  and  with 
every  step  the  fog  thickened. 

'Let's  stop.  Beauty,'  said  Victoria,  after  they  had 
rather  suddenly  walked  up  to  a  thicket.  '  We'll  get 
lost  in  the  wilderness.' 

*  And  wilderness  were  paradise  enow,'  murmured 
Neville  in  her  ear. 

Victoria  did  not  know  the  hackneyed  line.  It 
soimded  beautiful  to  her.  She  laughed  nervously 
and  let  Neville  draw  her  down  by  his  side  on  the 
grass. 

'  Oh,  let  me  go,  Beauty,'  she  whispered.  *  Suppose 
someone  should  come.' 

Neville  did  not  answer.  He  had  clasped  her  to 
him.  His  lips  were  more  insistent  on  hers.  She  felt 
his  hand  on  her  breast. 

'  Oh,  no,  no,  Beauty,  don't,  please  don't,'  she  said 
weakly. 

For  some  minutes  she  lay  passive  in  his  grasp. 
He  had  undone  the  back  of  her  blouse.    His  hand, 


136  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

cold  and  diy,  had  slipped  along  her  shoulder,  seeking 
warmth. 

Slowly  his  clasp  grew  harder ;  he  used  his  weight. 
Victoria  bent  under  it.  Something  like  f  aintness  came 
over  her. 

*  Victoria,  Victoria,  my  darling.'  The  voice  seemed 
far  away.  She  was  giving  way  more  and  more.  Not 
a  blade  of  grass  shuddered  under  its  shroud  of  mist. 
From  the  road  came  the  roar  of  a  motorbus,  like  a 
muffled  drum.  Then  she  felt  the  damp  of  the  grass 
on  her  back  through  the  opening  of  her  blouse. 

A  second  later  she  was  sitting  up.  She  had 
thrust  Neville  away  with  a  savage  push  under  the 
chin.  He  seized  her  once  more.  She  fought  him, 
seeing  nothing  to  struggle  with  but  a  silent  dark 
shadow. 

'  No,  Beauty,  no,  you  mustn't,'  she  panted. 

They  were  standing  then,  both  of  them. 

*  Vic,  darling,  why  not  ? '  pleaded  Neville  gently, 
etill  holding  her  hand. 

*  I  don't  know.     Oh,  no,  really  I  can't.  Beauty.' 
She  did  not  know  it,  but  generations  of  clean  living 

were  fighting  behind  her,  driving  back  and  crushing 
out  the  forces  of  nature.  She  did  not  know  that,  like 
most  women,  she  was  not  a  free  being  but  the  great- 
granddaughter  of  a  woman  whose  forbears  had  taught 
her  that  illegal  surrender  is  evil. 

'  I'm  sorry.  Beauty,  .  .  .  it's  my  fault,'  she  said. 

'  Oh,  don't  mention  it,'  said  Neville  icily,  dropping 
her  hand.     *  You're  playing  with  me,  that's  all.' 

*  I'm  not,'  said  Victoria,  tears  of  excitement  in  her 
eyes.  '  Oh,  Beauty,  don't  you  understand.  We 
women,  we  can't  do  what  we  like.  It's  so  hard. 
We're  poor,  and  life  is  so  dull  and  we  wish  we  were 
dead.  And  then  a  man  comes  like  you  and  the  only 
thing  he  can  offer,  we  mustn't  take  it.' 

*  But  why,  why  ? '  asked  Beauty. 

*  I  don't  know,'  said  Victoria.     *  We  mustn't.     At 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  137 

any  rate  I  mustn't.     My  freedom  is  all  I've  got  and 
I  can't  give  it  tip  to  you  like  that.     I  like  you,  you 
know  that,  don't  you,  Beauty  ?  ' 
Neville  did  not  answer. 

*  I  do,  Beauty.  But  I  can't,  don't  you  see.  If  I 
were  a  rich  woman  it  would  be  different.  I'd  owe 
nobody  anything.  But  I'm  poor ;  it'd  pull  me  down 
and  .  .  .  when  a  woman's  down,  men  either  kick  or 
kiss  her.' 

Neville  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

*  Let's  go,'  he  said. 

Silently,  side  by  side,  they  walked  out  of  the  park. 


CHAPTER  XVin 

October  was  dying,  its  russet  tints  slowly  merging 
into  grey.  Thin  mists,  laden  with  fine  specks  of 
soot,  had  penetrated  into  the  'Rosebud.'  Victoria, 
in  her  black  business  dress,  under  which  she  now 
had  to  wear  a  vest  which  rather  killed  the  tip-drawing 
power  of  her  openwork  blouse,  was  setting  her  tables, 
quickly  crossing  red  cloths  over  white,  polishing  the 
glasses,  arranging  knives  and  forks  in  artistic  if 
inconvenient  positions.  It  was  ten  o'clock,  but 
business  had  not  begun,  neither  IMr  Stein  nor  Butty 
having  arrived. 

*  Cold,  ain't  it  ? '  remarked  Gertie, 

'  Might  be  colder.'  said  Bella  Prodgitt. 
Victoria  came   towards   them,  carrying   a  trayful 
of  cruets. 

*  'Ow's  Beauty  ? '  asked  Gertie. 

Victoria  passed  by  without  a  word.  This  romance 
had  not  added  to  the  popularity  of  the  chairman's 
favourite.  Cora  and  Gladys  were  busy  dusting  the 
counter  and  polishing  the  urns.  Lottie,  in  front  of 
a  wall  glass,  was  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  the 
set  of  her  cap.  The  door  opened  to  let  in  Mr  Stein, 
strapped  tight  in  his  frock  coat,  his  top  hat  set  far 
back  on  his  bullet  head.  He  glared  for. a  moment 
at  the  staff  in  general,  then  without  a  word  took  a 
letter  addressed  to  him  from  a  rack  bearing  several 
addressed  to  customers,  and  passed  into  the  cash 
desk.  The  girls  resumed  their  polishing  more 
busily.     Quickly  the  night  wrappings  fell  from  the 

«3» 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  139 

chandeliers ;  the  rosebud  baskets  were  teased  into 
shape ;  the  tables,  loaded  swiftly  with  their  sets,  grew 
more  becoming.  Victoria,  passing  from  table  to 
table  set  on  each  a  small  vase  full  of  chrysanthemums. 

*  I  say,  Gladys,  look  at  Stein,'  whispered  Cora  to  her 
neighbour.  Gladys  straightened  herself  from  under 
the  counter  and  followed  the  direction  of  Cora's 
finger. 

'  Lord,'  she  said,  '  what's  up  ? ' 

Bella's  attention  was  attracted.  She  too  was 
interested  in  her  bovine  way.  Mr  Stein's  attitude 
was  certainly  unusual.  He  held  a  sheet  of  paper 
in  one  hand,  his  other  hand  clutching  at  his  cheek 
so  hard  as  to  make  one  of  his  eyes  protrude.  Both 
his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  sheet  of  paper,  incredulous 
and  horror-stricken. 

*  I  say,  Vic,  what's  the  matter  with  the  little  swine  ? ' 
suddenly  said  Lottie,  who  had  at  length  noticed  him. 

Victoria  looked.  Stein  had  not  moved.  For  some 
seconds  all  the  girls  gazed  spellboimd  at  the  frozen 
figure  in  the  cashbox.  The  silence  of  tragedy  was 
on  them,  a  silence  which  arrests  gesture  and  causes 
hearts  to  beat. 

*  Lord,  I  can't  stick  this,'  whispered  Cora,  '  there's 
something  wrong.'  Quickly  diving  under  the  counter 
flap  she  ran  towards  the  pay  box  where  Stein  still  sat 
unmoving,  as  if  petrified.  The  little  group  of  girls 
watched  her.  Bella's  stertorous  breathing  was 
plainly  heard. 

Cora  opened  the  glass  door  and  seized  Stein  by 
the  arm. 

'  What's  the  matter,  Mr  Stein  ?  '  she  said  excitedly, 
*  are  you  feeling  queer  ?  ' 

Stein  started  like  a  somnabulist  suddenly  awakened 
and  looked  at  her  stupidly,  then  at  the  motionless 
girls  in  the  shop. 

'  Nein,  nein,  lassen  sie  doch,'  he  muttered. 

'  Mr  Stein,  Mi'  Stein,'  half-screamed  Cora. 


146  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

'  Oil,  get  out,  I'm  all  right,  but  the  game's  up. 
He's  gone.  The  game's  up  I  tell  up.  The  game's 
up.' 

Cora  looked  at  him  round-eyed.  Mr  Stein's  idioms 
frightened  her  almost  more  than  his  German. 

Stein  was  babbling,  speaking  louder  and  louder. 

*  Gone  away.  Burton.  Bankrupt  and  got  all  the 
cash.  .  .  .  See  ?  You  get  the  sack.  Starve.  So  do 
I  and  my  vife.  .  .  .  Ach,  ach,  ach,  ach.  Mein  Gott, 
Mein  Gott,  was  soils,  .  .  .' 

Gertie  watched  from  the  counter  with  a  heightened 
colour.  Lottie  and  Victoria,  side  by  side,  had  not 
moved.  A  curious  chill  had  seized  Victoria,  stiffening 
her  wrists  and  knees.  Stein  was  talking  quicker  and 
quicker,  with  a  voice  that  was  not  his. 

*  Ach,  the  damned  scoundrel  .  .  .  the  schweinehund 
...  he  knew  the  business  was  going  to  the  dogs,  ach, 
schweinehund,  schweinehund.  .  .  .'  He  paused. 
Less  savage  his  thoughts  turned  to  his  losses.  *  Two 
hundred  shares  he  sold  me.  ...  I  paid  a  premium 
.  .  .  they  vas  to  go  to  four  .  .  .  ach,  ach,  ach.  .  .  . 
I'm  in  the  cart.' 

Gertie  sniggered  gently.  The  idiom  had  swamped 
the  tragedy.  Stein  looked  round  at  the  sound.  His 
face  had  gone  leaden ;  his  greasy  plastered  hair  was 
all  awry. 

*  Vat  you  laughing  at,  gn  ? '  he  asked  savagely, 
suddenly  resuming  his  managerial  tone. 

'  Take  it  we're  bust,  ain't  we  ? '  said  Gertie,  stepping 
forward  jauntily. 

Stein  lifted,  then  dropped  one  hand. 

'  Yes,'  he  said,  *  bust.' 

'Thank  you  for  a  week's  wages,  Mr  Stein,'  said 
Gertie,  *  and  I'll  push  off,  if  yer  don't  mind.' 

Stein  laughed  harshly.  With  a  theatrical  move- 
ment he  seized  the  cash  drawer  by  the  handle,  drew 
it  out  and  flung  it  on  the  floor.     It  was  empty. 

*0h,  that's  'ow  it  is,'  said  Gertie.     'You're  a  fine 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  141 

gentleman,  I  don't  think.  Bloomin'  lot  of  skunks. 
What  price  that,  mate  ? '  she  screamed  addressing 
Bella,  who  still  sat  in  her  chair,  her  cheeks  rising  and 
falling  like  the  sides  of  a  cuttlefish.  *  'Ere's  a  fine 
go.  Fellers  comes  along  and  tikes  in  poor  girl's  like 
me  and  you  and  steals  the  bread  outer  their  mouths. 
I'll  'ave  yer  run  in,  yer  bloody  foreigner.'  She  waved 
her  fist  in  the  man's  face.  *  For  two  pins,'  she 
screamed,  '  I'd  smash  yer  fice,  I'd.  .  .  .' 

'  Chuck  it,  Gertie,'  said  Lottie,  suddenly  taking  her 
by  the  arm,  *  don't  you  see  he's  got  nothing  to  do 
with  it  ? ' 

'  Oh,  indeed.  Miss  Mealymouth,'  sneered  Gertie, 
'  what  I  want  is  my  money.  .  .  .' 

*  Leave  him  alone,  Gertie,'  said  Victoria,  '  you  can't 
kick  a  man  when  he's  down.' 

Gertie  looked  as  if  she  were  about  to  explode. 
Then  the  problem  became  too  big  for  her.  In  her 
little  Cockney  brain  the  question  was  insolubly 
revolving :  *  Can  you  kick  a  man  when  he's  down  .  .  .  ? 
Can  you  kick.  ,  .  .  ? ' 

Mr  Stein  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead.  He 
was  pulling  himself  together. 

'  Close  de  door,  Cora,'  he  commanded.  '  Now  then, 
the  company's  bankrupt,  there's  nothing  in  the  cash- 
box.  You  get  the  push.  ...  I  get  the  push.'  His 
voice  broke  slightly.  His  face  twitched.  'You  can 
go.     Get  another  job.'     He  looked  at  Gertie. 

*  Put  down  your  address.  I  give  it  to  the  police. 
You  get  something  for  wages.'  He  slowly  turned  away 
and  sat  down  on  a  chair,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  wall. 

There  was  a  repressed  hubbub  of  talking.  Then 
Gertie  made  the  first  move  and  went  up  to  the  change 
room.  She  came  back  a  minute  or  two  later  in  her 
long  coat  and  large  hat,  carrying  a  parcel  which  none 
noticed  as  being  rather  large  for  a  comb.  It  contained 
the  company's  cap  and  apron  which,  thought  she,  she 
might  as  well  save  fiom  the  wreck. 


143  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Gertie  shook  liands  with  Cora.  *  See  yer  ter-night,' 
she  said  airily,  '  same  old  jjlace  ;  'bye  Miss  Prodgitt, 
'ope  "  Force "  '11  lift  you  out  of  this.'  She  shook 
hands  with  Victoria,  a  trifle  coldly,  kissed  Lottie, 
threw  one  last  malevolent  look  at  Stein's  back.  The 
door  closed  behind  her.  She  had  passed  out  of  the 
backwater  into  the  main  stream. 

Lottie,  a  little  self  consciously,  pulled  down  the 
pink  blinds,  in  token  of  mourning.  The  '  Rosebud  ' 
hung  broken  on  its  stalk.  Then,  silently,  she  went 
up  into  the  change  room,  followed  by  Cora ;  a  pace 
behind  came  Victoria,  all  heavy  with  gloom.  They 
dressed  silently.  Cora,  without  a  word,  kissed  them 
both,  collected  her  small  possessions  into  a  reticule, 
then  shook  hands  with  both  and  kissed  them  again. 
The  door  closed  behind  her.  When  Lottie  and 
Victoria  went  down  into  the  shop,  Cora  also  had  passed 
into  the  main  stream.     Gladys  had  gone  with  her. 

The  two  girls  hesitated  for  a  moment  as  to  whether 
they  should  speak  to  Stein.  It  was  almost  dark,  for 
the  October  light  was  too  weak  to  filter  through  the 
thick  pink  blinds.     Lottie  went  up  to  the  dark  figure. 

'  Cheer  up,'  she  said  kindly,  '  it's  a  long  lane  that 
has  no  turning.' 

Stein  looked  up  uncomprehendingly,  then  sank  his 
head  into  his  hands. 

As  Lottie  and  Victoria  turned  once  more,  the  front 
door  open  behind  them,  all  they  saw  was  Bella 
Prodgitt,  lymphatic  as  ever,  motionless  on  her  chair, 
like  a  watcher  over  the  figure  of  the  man  silently 
mourning  his  last  hopes. 

As  they  passed  into  the  street  the  fresh  air 
quickened  by  the  coming  cold  of  winter,  stung  their 
blood  to  action.  The  autumn  sunlight,  pale  like  the 
faded  gold  of  hair  that  age  has  silvered,  threw  faint 
shadows  on  the  dry  white  pavements  where  little 
whirlwinds  of  dust  chased  and  figured  like  swallows 
on  the  wing. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  143 

Lottie  and  Victoria  wallfed  quickly  down  tlie  city 
streets.  It  was  half -past  eleven,  a  time  when,  the 
rush  of  the  morning  over,  comparative  emptiness 
awaits  the  coming  of  the  midday  crowds ;  every 
minute  they  were  stopped  by  the  blocks  of  drays 
and  carriages  which  come  in  greater  numbers  in  the 
road  as  men  grow  fewer  on  the  pavements.  The 
imaccustomed  liberty  of  the  hour  did  not  strike  them ; 
for  depression,  a  sense  of  impotence  before  fatality, 
was  upon  them.  Indeed,  they  did  not  pause  until 
they  reached  on  the  Embankment  the  spot  where  the 
two  beautiful  youths  prepare  to  fasten  on  one  another 
their  grip  of  bronze.  They  sat  down  upon  a  seat 
and  for  a  while  remained  silent. 

'  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Lottie  ? '  asked  Victoria. 

'  Look  out  for  another  job,  of  course,*  said  Lottie. 

*  In  the  same  line  ?  '  said  Victoria. 

'  I'll  try  that  first,'  replied  Lottie,  *  but  you  know 
I'm  not  particular.  There's  all  sorts  of  shops.  Nice 
soft  little  jobs  at  photographers,  and  manicuring 
showrooms,  I  don't  mind.' 

Victoria,  with  the  leaden  weight  of  former  days 
pressing  on  her,  envied  Lottie's  calm  optimism.  She 
seemed  so  capable.  But  so  far  as  she  herself  was 
concerned,  she  did  not  feel  sure  that  the  '  other  job  ' 
would  so  easily  be  found.  Indeed  the  memory  of  her 
desperate  hunt  for  work  wrapped  itself  round  her, 
cold  as  a  shroud. 

'  But  what  if  you  can't  get  one,'  she  faltered. 

*  Oh,  that'll  be  all  right,'  said  Lottie,  airily.  *  I  can 
live  with  my  married  sister  for  a  bit,  but  I'll  find  a 
job  somehow.  That  doesn't  worry  me.  What  are 
you  thinking  of  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Victoria  slowly,  '  I  must  look 
out  I  suppose.' 

'  Hard  up  ?  '  asked  Lottie. 

'No,  not  exactly,'  said  Victoria.  'I'm  not  rolling 
in  wealth,  you  know,  but  I  can  manage.' 


144  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  Well,  don't  you  go  and  get  stranded  or  anything,' 
said  Lottie.  '  It  doesn't  do  to  be  proud.  It's  not 
much  I  can  do,  but  anyhow  you  let  me  know  if — ' 
She  paused.     Victoria  put  her  hand  on  hers. 

'You're  a  bit  of  all  right,  Lottie,'  she  said  softly,  her 
feelings  forming  naturally  into  the  language  of  her 
adopted  class.  For  a  few  minutes  the  girls  sat  hand 
in  hand. 

'  Well,  I'd  better  be  going,'  said  Lottie.  *  I'm 
going  to  my  married  sister  at  High  gate  first.  Time 
enough  to  look  about  this  afternoon.' 

The  two  girls  exchanged  addresses.  Victoria 
watched  her  friend's  slim  figure  grow  smaller  and 
slimmer  under  her  crown  of  pale  hair,  then  almost 
fade  away,  merge  into  men  and  women  and  suddenly 
vanish  at  a  turn,  swallowed  up.  With  a  little  shiver 
she  got  up  and  walked  away  quickly  towards  the 
west.  She  was  lonely  suddenly,  horribly  so.  One  by 
one,  all  the  links  of  her  worldly  chain  had  snapped. 
Burton,  the  sensual  brute,  was  gone ;  Stein  was 
perhaps  sitting  still  numb  and  silent  in  the  darkened 
shop  ;  Gertie,  flippant  and  sharp,  had  sailed  forth  on 
life's  ocean,  there  to  be  tossed  like  a  cork  and  like  a 
cork  to  swim ;  now  Lottie  was  gone,  cool  and  con- 
fident, to  dangers  underrated  and  unknown.  She 
stood  alone. 

As  she  reached  Westminster  Bridge  a  strange  sense 
of  familiarity  overwhelmed  her.  A  well-known  figure 
was  there  and  it  was  horribly  symbolical.  It  was 
the  old  vagrant  of  bygone  days,  sitting  propped  up 
against  the  parapet,  clad  in  his  filthy  rags.  From 
his  short  clay  pipe,  at  long  intervals,  he  puffed 
wreaths  of  smoke  into  the  blue  air. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

The  russet  of  October  had  turned  into  the  bleak 
darkness  of  December.  The  threat  of  winter  was  in 
the  air ;  it  hissed  and  sizzled  in  the  bare  branches  as 
they  bent  in  the  cold  wind,  shaking  quivering  drops 
of  water  broadcast  as  if  sowing  the  seeds  of  pain. 
Victoria  stopped  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold  of  the 
house  in  Star  Street,  looked  up  and  down  the  road. 
It  was  black  and  sodden  with  wet ;  the  pavement 
was  greasy  and  glistening,  flecked  with  cabbage 
stalks  and  orange  peel.  Then  she  looked  across  at 
the  small  shop  where,  though  it  was  Sunday,  a  tailor 
sat  cross-legged  almost  on  a  level  with  the  street, 
painfully  collecting  with  weary  eyes  the  avaricious 
light.  His  back  was  bowed  with  habit ;  that  and  his 
bandy  legs  told  of  his  life  and  revealed  his  being. 
In  the  street,  when  he  had  time  to  walk  there,  boys 
mocked  his  shuffling  gate,  thus  paying  popular  tribute 
to  the  marks  of  honest  toil, 

Victoria  stepped  down  to  the  pavement.  A  dragging 
sensation  made  her  look  at  her  right  boot.  The  sole 
was  parting  from  the  upper,  stitch  by  stitch.  With 
something  that  was  hardly  a  sigh  Victoria  put  her 
foot  down  again  and  slowly  walked  away.  She  turned 
into  Edgware  Road,  followed  it  northwards  for  a 
while,  then  doubled  sharply  back  into  Praed  Street 
where  she  lingered  awhile  before  an  old  curiosity 
shop.  She  looked  between  two  prints  into  the  shop 
where,  in  the  darkness,  she  could  see  nothing.  Yet 
she  looked  at  nothingness  for  quite  a  long  while. 
K  145 


146  A  BED  OP  ROSES 

Theu,  listlessly,  she  followed  the  street,  turned  back 
through  a  square  and  stopped  before  a  tiny  chapel 
almost  at  the  end  of  Star  Street.  The  deity  that 
follows  with  passionless  eyes  the  wanderer  in  mean 
streets  knew  from  her  course  that  this  woman  had  no 
errand ;  without  emotion  the  Being  snipped  a  few 
minutes  from  her  earthly  span. 

By  the  side  of  the  chapel  sat  an  aged  woman 
smothered  in  rags  so  many  and  so  thick  that  she 
was  passing  well  clad.  She  was  hunched  up  on 
a  camp  stool,  all  string  and  bits  of  firewood.  A 
small  stove  carrying  an  iron  tray  told  that  her  trade 
was  selling  roasted  chestnuts  ;  nothing  moved  in  the 
group  ;  the  old  woman's  face  was  bro\vn  and  cracked 
as  her  own  chesnuts  and  there  was  less  life  in  her 
than  in  the  warm  scent  of  the  roasting  fruits  which 
gratefully  filled  Victoria's  nostrils. 

The  eight  weeks  which  now  separated  Victoria 
from  the  old  days  at  the  *  Rosebud  '  had  driven  deepei 
yet  into  her  soul  her  unimportance.  She  was  power- 
less before  the  world  ;  indeed,  when  she  thought  of  it 
at  all,  she  no  longer  likened  herself  to  a  cork  tossed 
in  the  storm,  but  to  a  pebble  sunken  and  motionless 
in  the  bed  of  a  flowing  river. 

Upon  the  day  which  followed  her  sudden  uprooting 
Victoria  had  bent  her  back  to  the  task  of  finding 
work.  She  had  known  once  more  the  despairing 
search  through  the  advertisement  columns  of  the 
Daily  Telegraph,  the  skilful  winnowing  of  chafE  from 
wheat,  sudden  and  then  baffled  hopes.  Her  new 
professional  sense  had  taken  her  to  the  shops  where 
young  women  are  wanted  to  enhance  the  attraction 
of  coffee  and  cigarettes.  But  the  bankruptcy  of  the 
*  Rosebud '  was  not  an  isolated  case.  The  dishonesty 
of  Burton  was  not  its  cause  but  its  consequence ;  the 
ship  was  sinking  under  his  feet  when  he  deserted  it 
after  loading  himself  with  such  booty  as  he  could 
carry.     Victoria  had  discovered  grimly  that  the  first 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  147 

result  of  a  commercial  crisis  is  the  submerging  of 
those  whose  laboui-s  create  a  commercial  boom. 
Within  a  week  of  the  '  Rosebud  '  disaster  the  eleven 
City  cafes  of  the  '  Lethe,  Ltd.'  had  closed  their  doors. 
Two  small  failures  in  the  West  End  were  followed 
by  a  greater  crash.  The  '  People's  Restaurants,  Ltd.', 
eaten  out  by  the  thousand  depots  of  the  '  Refreshment 
Rendezvous,  Ltd.,'  had  filed  a  voluntary  petition  for 
liquidation  ;  the  ofl&cial  liquidator  had  at  once  in- 
augurated a  policy  of  'retrenchment  and  sound 
business  management,'  and,  as  a  beginning,  closed 
two  hundred  shops  in  the  City  and  West  End,  He 
proposed  to  exploit  the  suburbs,  and,  after  a 
triumphant  amalgamation  with  the  victorious  'Re- 
freshment Rendezvous,'  to  retire  from  law  into 
peaceful  directorships  and  there  collect  innumerable 
guineas. 

Victoria  had  followed  the  convulsion  with  passionate 
interest.  For  a  week  the  restaurant  slump  had  been 
the  fashion.  The  manager  of  every  surviving  cafe 
in  London  had  given  it  as  his  deliberate  opinion  that 
trade  would  be  all  the  better  for  it.  The  financial 
papers  published  grave  warnings  as  to  the  dangers 
of  the  restaurant  business,  to  which  the  Stock 
Exchange  promptly  responded  by  marking  up  the 
prices  of  the  survivors'  shares.  The  Socialist  papers 
had  eloquently  pleaded  for  government  assistance  for 
the  two  thousand  odd  displaced  girls ;  a  Cabinet 
Minister  had  marred  his  parliamentary  reputation  by 
endeavouring  to  satisfy  one  wing  of  his  party  that 
the  tearoom  at  South  Kensington  Museum  was  not 
a  Socialistic  venture  and  the  other  wing  that  it  was 
an  institution  leading  up  to  State  ownership  of  the 
trade.  A  girl  discharged  from  the  '  Lethe '  had  earned 
five  guineas  by  writing  a  thousand  words  in  a  hated 
but  largely  read  daily  paper.  The  interest  had  been 
kept  up  by  the  rescue  of  a  P.R.  girl  who  had  jumped 
o£E   Waterloo   Bridge.     Another    P.R.  girl,  fired  by 


148  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

example,  had  been  more  successful  in  the  Lea.  This 
valuable  advertisement  enabled  the  Relief  Fund  to 
distribute  five  shillings  a  head  to  many  young  persons 
who  had  been  waitresses  at  some  time  or  another ; 
there  were  rumours  of  a  knighthood  for  its  energetic 
promoter. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  welter  that  Victoria  had 
found  herself  cast,  ^vith  her  newly  acquired  experience 
a  drug  in  the  market,  and  all  the  world  inclined  to 
look  upon  her  as  a  kind  of  adventuress.  Her 
employer's  failure  was  in  a  sense  her  failure,  and 
she  was  handy  to  blame.  For  three  weeks  she  had 
doggedly  continued  her  search  for  work,  applying 
first  of  all  in  the  smart  tea-rooms  of  the  West,  and 
every  day  she  became  more  accustomed  to  being 
turned  away.  Her  soul  hardened  to  rebuffs  as  that  of 
a  beggar  who  learns  to  bear  stoically  the  denial  of 
alms.  After  vainly  trying  the  best  Victoria  had 
tried  the  worst,  but  everywhere  the  story  was  the 
same.  Every  small  restaurant  keeper  was  drawing 
his  horns  in,  feverishly  casting  up  trial  balances ; 
some  of  them  in  their  panic  had  damaged  their  credit 
by  trying  to  arrange  with  their  banks  for  overdrafts 
they  would  never  need.  The  slump  was  such  that 
they  did  not  believe  that  the  public  would  continue 
to  eat  and  drink  ;  they  retrenched  employees  instead 
of  trying  to  carve  success  out  of  other  men's 
disasters. 

Victoria,  her  teeth  set,  had  faced  the  storm.  She 
now  explored  districts  and  streets  systematically, 
almost  house  by  house.  And  when  her  spirit  broke 
at  the  end  of  the  week,  as  her  perpetual  walks,  the 
buffeting  of  rain  and  wind  soiled  her  clothing,  broke 
breaches  into  her  boots,  chapped  her  hands  as  glove 
seams  gave  way,  the  only  thing  that  could  brace  her 
up  was  the  shrinkage  of  her  hoard  by  a  sovereign. 
She  placed  the  coin  on  the  mantlepiece  after  counting 
the  remainder.    Monday  morning  saw  it  reduced  to 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  149 

eleven  shillings  and  sixpence.  "When  the  crisis  came 
she  had  taken  in  sail  by  exchanging  into  the  second 
floor  back,  then  fortunately  vacant,  thus  saving  three 
shillings  in  rent. 

The  sight  of  her  melting  capital  was  a  horror  which 
she  faced  only  once  a  week,  for  at  other  times  she 
thrust  the  thought  away,  but  it  intruded  every  time 
with  greater  insistence.  Untrained  still  in  economy 
she  found  it  impossible  to  reduce  her  expenditure 
below  a  pound.  After  paying  off  the  mortgage  of 
eight  and  sixpence  for  her  room  and  breakfast,  she 
had  to  set  aside  three  shillings  for  fares,  for  she  dared 
not  wade  overmuch  in  the  December  mud.  The 
manageress  of  a  cafe  lost  in  Marylebone  had  heard 
her  kindly,  but  had  looked  at  her  boots  plastered 
with  mud,  then  at  the  dirty  fringes  of  her  petticoats 
and  said,  regretfully  almost,  that  she  would  not  do. 
That  day  had  cost  Victoria  a  pound  almost  wrenched 
out  of  the  money  drawer.  But  this  wardrobe  though 
an  asset,  was  an  incubus,  and  Victoria  at  times  often 
hated  it,  for  it  cost  so  much  in  omnibus  fares  that  she 
paid  for  it  every  day  in  food  stolen  from  her  body. 

By  the  end  of  the  seventh  week  Victoria  had 
reduced  her  hoard  to  four  pounds.  She  now  applied 
for  work  like  an  automaton,  often  going  twice  to  the 
same  shop  without  realising  it,  at  other  times  sitting 
for  hours  on  a  park  seat  until  the  drizzle  oozed  from 
her  hair  into  her  neck.  At  the  end  of  the  seventh 
week  she  had  so  lost  consciousness  of  the  world  that 
she  walked  all  through  the  Sunday  gloom  without 
food.  Then,  at  eight  o'clock,  awakening  suddenly  to 
her  need,  she  gorged  herself  with  suet  pudding  at  an 
eating  house  in  the  Edgware  Road,  came  back  to 
Star  Street  and  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep. 

About  four  she  was  aroused  by  horrible  sickness 
which  left  her  weak,  every  muscle  relaxed  and  every 
nerve  strained  to  breaking  point.  Shapes  blacker 
than  the  night  flosited  before  her  eyes  ;  every  passing; 


ISO  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

milk  cart  rattled  savagely  through  her  beating 
temples  ;  twitchings  at  her  ankles  and  wrists,  and  the 
hurried  beat  of  her  heart  shook  the  whole  of  her 
body.  She  almost  writhed  on  her  bed,  up  and  down, 
as  if  forcibly  thrown  or  goaded. 

As  the  December  dawn  struggled  through  her 
window,  diffusing  over  the  white  wall  the  light  of  the 
condemned  cell,  she  could  bear  it  no  more.  She  got 
up,  washed  hon-ible  bitterness  from  her  mouth,  clots 
from  her  eyes.  Then,  swaying  with  weariness  and  all 
her  pulses  beating,  she  strayed  into  the  street, 
unseeing,  her  boots  unbuttoned,  into  the  daily 
struggle. 

As  the  blind  man  imguided,  or  the  poor  on  the 
march,  she  went  into  the  East,  now  palely  glowing 
over  the  chimney  pots.  She  did  not  feel  her  weariness. 
Her  feet  did  not  belong  to  her;  she  felt  as  if  her 
whole  body  were  one  gigantic  wound  vaguely  aching 
under  the  chloroform.  She  walked  without  intention, 
and  as  towards  no  goal.  At  Oxford  Circus  she 
stopped.  Her  eye  had  unconsciously  been  arrested 
by  the  posters  which  the  newsvendor  was  deftly 
glueing  down  on  the  pavement.  The  crude  colours 
of  the  posters,  red,  green,  yellow,  shocked  her  sluggish 
mind  into  action.  One  spoke  of  a  great  reverse  in 
Nubia ;  another  repeated  the  information  and  added 
a  football  cup  draw.  A  third  poster,  blazing  red, 
struck  such  a  blow  at  Victoria  that,  for  a  wild 
moment,  her  heart  seemed  to  stop.  It  merely  bore 
the  words : 

P  R 
REOPENS 
Victoria  read  the  two  lines  five  or  six  times,  first 
dully,  then  in  a  whirl  of  emotion.  Her  blood  seemed 
to  go  hot  and  tingle  ;  the  twitchings  of  her  wrists  and 
ankles  grew  insistent.  With  her  heart  pounding 
with  excitement  she  asked  for  the  paper  in  a  choked 
voice,   refusing  the  halfpenny  change.     Backing  a 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  151 

step  or  two  she  opened  the  paper.    A  sheet  dropped 
into  the  mnd. 

The  newsvendor,  grizzled  and  snnbumt  right  into 
the  wrinkles,  picked  np  the  sheet  and  looked  at  her 
wonderingly.  From  the  other  side  a  corpulent  police- 
man watched  her  with  faint  interest,  reading  her  like 
a  book.  He  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  Victoria  was 
out  of  work ;  her  face  showed  that  hope  had  come 
into  her  life. 

Victoria  read  every  detail  greedily.  The  enter- 
prising liquidator  had  carried  through  the  amalgama- 
tion of  the  People's  Restaurants  and  the  Refreshment 
Rendezvous,  and  created  the  People's  Refreshment 
Rendezvous.  He  had  done  this  so  quietly  and 
suddenly  that  the  effect  was  a  thunderbolt. 
He  had  forestalled  the  decision  of  the  Court, 
so  that  agreements  had  been  ready  and  signed 
on  the  Saturday  evening,  while  leave  had  obscurely 
been  granted  on  the  Friday.  Being  master  of  the 
situation  the  liquidator  was  re-opening  fifty-five  of  the 
two  himdred  closed  shops.  The  paper  announced 
his  boast  that  *by  ten  o'clock  on  Monday  morning 
fifty-five  P.  R.  R.'s  would  be  flying  the  flag  of  the 
scone  and  cross  buns.'  The  paper  also  hailed  this 
pronouncement  as  Napoleonic. 

Victoria  feverishly  read  the  list  of  the  rescued 
depots.  They  were  mainly  in  Oxford  Street  and 
Bloomsbury.  Indeed,  one  of  them  was  in  Princes 
Street.  A  flood  of  clarity  seemed  to  come  over 
Victoria's  brain.  It  was  impossible  for  the  P.  R.  or 
P.  R.  R.  or  whatever  it  had  become,  to  have  secured  a 
stafE  on  the  Sunday.  No  doubt  they  proposed  to 
engage  it  on  the  spot  and  to  rush  the  organisation 
into  working  order  so  as  to  capture  at  the  outset  the 
sueces  de  euriosite  which  every  London  daily  was 
beating  up  in  the  breast  of  a  million  idle  men 
and  women.  Clutching  the  paper  in  her  hand  she  ran 
across  Oxford  Street  almost  under  the  wheels  of  a 


152  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

motor  lorry.  She  turned  into  Princes  Street,  and 
hurled  herself  against  the  familiar  door,  clutching  at 
the  handle. 

There  was  another  girl  leaning  against  the  door. 
She  was  tall  and  slim.  Her  fair  hair  went  to  sandiness. 
Her  black  coat  was  dusty  and  stained.  Her  large 
blue  eyes  started  from  her  colourless  face,  pale  lipped, 
hollow  under  the  cheekbones.  Victoria  recovered  her 
breath  and  put  her  hair  straight  feverishly.  A  short 
dark  girl  joined  the  group,  pressing  her  body  close 
against  them.  Then  two  more.  Then,  one  by  one, 
half  a  dozen.  Victoria  discovered  that  her  boots  were 
undone,  and  bent  down  to  do  them  up  with  a  hairpin. 
As  she  struggled  with  numb  fingers  her  rivals  pressed 
upon  her  with  silent  hostility.  As  she  straightened 
herself,  the  throng  suddenly  thrust  her  away  from  the 
door.  Victoria  recovered  herself  and  drove  against 
them  gritting  her  teeth.  The  fair  girl  was  ground 
against  her ;  but  Victoria,  full  of  her  pain  and  bread 
lust,  thrust  her  elbow  twice  into  the  girl's  breast. 
She  felt  something  like  the  rage  of  battle  upon  her 
and  its  joy  as  the  bone  entered  the  soft  flesh  like  a 
weapon. 

'Now  then,  steady  girls,'  said  the  voice  of  the 
policeman,  faint  like  a  dream  voice. 

*  Blime,  ain't  they  a  'ot  lot ! '  said  another  dream 
voice,  a  loafer's. 

The  crowd  once  more  became  orderly.  Though 
quite  a  hundred  girls  had  now  collected  hardly  any 
spoke.  In  every  face  there  was  tenseness,  though  the 
front  ranks  showed  most  ferocity  in  their  eyes  and  the 
late-comers  most  weariness. 

*  Where  you  shovin'  ? '  asked  a  sulky  voice. 
There  was  a  mutter  that  might  have  been  a  curse. 

Then  silence  once  more  ;  and  the  girls  fiercely  watched 
for  their  bread,  looking  right  and  left  like  suspicious 
dogs.  A  spruce  young  warehouseman  slowly  reviewed 
the  girls  and  allowed  his  eyes  to  linger  approvingly 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  153 

on  one  or  two.  He  winked  approvingly  at  the  fair 
girl  but  she  did  not  respond.  Slie  stood  flat  against 
the  door,  every  inch  of  her  body  spread  so  as  to  occupy 
as  much  space  as  she  could. 

Then,  half -past  seven,  a  young  man  and  a  middle- 
aged  woman  shouldering  through  the  wedged  mass, 
the  fierce  rush  into  the  shop  and  there  the  gasp  behind 
closed  doors  among  the  other  winners,  hatless,  their 
clothes  torn,  their  bodices  ripped  open  to  the  stays, 
one  with  her  hair  down  and  her  neck  marked  here 
and  there  by  bleeding  scratches.  Then,  after  the 
turmoil  of  the  day  among  the  strangeness,  without 
rest  or  food,  to  make  holiday  for  the  Londoners,  a  night 
heavy  as  lead  and  a  week  every  day  more  mechanical. 
Victoria  had  returned  to  the  treadmill  and,  within  a 
week,  knew  it. 

'  '  *  ■  The  clock  struck  five.  Victoria  awoke  from 
her  dream  epic.  She  had  won  her  battle  and  sailed 
into  harbour.  Its  waters  were  already  as  horribly 
still  as  those  of  a  stagnant  pool.  The  old  chestnut 
vendor  sat  motionless  on  her  seat  of  firewood  and 
string.  Not  a  thought  chased  over  her  gnarled  brown 
face.  From  the  sto^'^e  came  the  faint  pungent  smell 
of  the  charring  peel. 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  FORTNIGHT  later  Victoria  had  returned  to  the  City. 
Most  of  the  old  P.R's  had  reopened,  after  passing 
under  the  yoke.  A  coat  of  paint  had  transformed 
them  into  P.R.R's.  In  fact  their  extinction  was 
complete ;  nothing  was  left  of  them  but  the  P.  and 
the  chairmanship  of  the  amalgamated  company,  for  their 
chairman  was  an  earl  and  part  of  the  goodwill.  The 
P.R.  had  apparently  been  bought  up  at  a  fair  rate. 
Its  shares  having  fallen  to  sixpence,  most  of  the  share- 
holders had  lost  large  sums;  whereas  the  directors 
and  their  friends,  displaying  the  acumen  that  is 
sometimes  found  among  directors,  had  quietly  bought 
the  shares  up  by  the  thousand  and  by  putting  them 
into  the  new  company  had  realised  large  profits.  As 
the  failure  had  happened  during  the  old  year  and  most 
of  the  shops  had  been  reopened  in  the  new,  it  was 
quite  clear  that  the  catering  trade  was  expanding. 
It  was  a  startling  instance  of  commercial  progress. 

Within  a  week  the  P.R.R.  decided  to  start  once 
more  in  the  City.  Victoria,  by  her  own  request,  was 
transferred  to  Moorgate  Street.  She  did  not  like  the 
neighbourhood  of  Oxford  Circus  ;  it  was  unfamiliar 
without  being  stimulating.  She  objected  too  to 
serving  women.  If  she  must  serve  at  all  she  pre- 
ferred serving  men.  She  did  not  worship  men ; 
indeed  the  impression  they  had  left  on  her  was 
rather  unpleasant.  The  subalterns  at  the  mess  were 
dull,  Mr  Parker  a  stick,  Bobby  was  Bobby,  Burton  a 
cur,  Stein  a  lout,  Beauty,  well  perhaps  Beauty  wag 

*34 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  155 

a  little  better  and  Cairns  worthy  of  a  kind  thought ; 
but  all  the  others,  boys  and  half  men  with  their  futile 
talk,  their  slang  cribbed  from  the  music  halls,  their 
affectations,  their  loud  ties,  were  nothing  but  the 
ballast  on  which  the  world  has  founded  its  permanent 
way.  Yet  a  mysterious  sex  instinct  made  Victoria 
prefer  even  them  to  the  young  ladies  who  frequented 
Princes  Street.  It  is  better  to  be  made  love  to 
insolently  than  to  be  ordered  about. 

The  Moorgate  P.R.R.  was  one  of  the  curious  crosses 
between  the  ice  cream  shop  and  the  chop  house  where 
thirty  bob  a  week  snatches  a  sixpenny  lunch.  It  was 
full  of  magnificent  indifference.  You  could  bang  your 
twopence  for  a  small  coffee,  or  luxuriate  in  steak  and 
kidney  pie,  boiled  {i.e.  potatoes),  stewed  primes  and 
cream,  and  be  served  with  the  difference  of  interest 
that  the  recording  angel  may  make  between 
No.  1,000,000  and  1,000,001.  You  were  seldom 
looked  at,  and,  if  looked  at,  forgotten.  It  was  as 
blatant  as  the  *  Rosebud  '  had  been  discreet.  Painted 
pale  blue,  it  flaunted  a  plate  glass  window  fuU  of 
cakes,  packets  of  tea,  pounds  of  chocolate,  jars  of 
sweets ;  .some  imitation  chops  garnished  with  imita- 
tion parsley,  and  a  chafing  dish  full  of  stage  eggs 
and  bacon  held  out  the  promise  of  strong  meats. 
Enormous  urns,  polished  like  silver,  could  be  seen 
from  the  outside  emitting  clouds  of  steam ;  under 
the  chafing  dish  too  came  up  vaporous  jets. 

Inside,  the  P.R.R.  recalled  the  wilderness  and  the 
animation  of  a  bank.  To  the  blue  and  red  tesselated 
floor  were  fastened  many  marble-topped  tables 
squeezed  so  close  together  that  when  a  customer  rose 
to  leave  he  created  an  eddy  among  his  disturbed 
fellows.  The  floor  was  swamped  with  chairs  which, 
during  the  lunch  hour,  dismally  grated  on  the  tiled 
floor.  It  was  clean  ;  for,  after  every  burst  of  feeding, 
the  appointed  scavenger  swept  the  fallen  crusts, 
fragments  of  pudding,  cigarette  ends  and  banana 


156  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

skins  into  a  large  bin.  This  bin  was  periodically 
emptied  and  the  contents  sent  to  the  East  End, 
whether  to  be  destroyed  or  to  be  used  for  philan- 
thropic purposes  is  not  known. 

The  girls  were  trained  to  quick  service  here. 
Victoria  found  no  difficulty  in  acquiring  the  P.R.R. 
swing,  for  she  had  not  to  memorise  the  variety  of 
dishes  which  the  more  fastidious  Rosebudders 
demanded.  Her  mental  load  seldom  went  beyond 
small  teas,  a  coffee  or  two,  half  a  veal  and  ham  pie, 
sandwiches  and  porridge.  There  was  no  considering 
the  bill  of  fare.  It  stood  on  every  table,  immutable 
as  a  constitution  and  as  dull.  At  the  P.K.R.,  a  man 
absorbed  a  maximum  of  stodgy  food,  paid  his 
minimum  of  cash  and  vanished  into  an  office  to  pour 
out  the  resultant  energy  for  thirty  bob  a  week.  As 
there  were  no  tips  Victoria  soon  learned  that  courtesy 
was  wasted,  so  wasted  none. 

The  P.R.R.  did  not  treat  its  girls  badly — in  this 
sense,  that  it  treated  them  no  worse  than  its  rivals 
did  theirs ;  it  practised  commercial  morality.  Victoria 
received  eight  shillings  a  week,  to  which  good 
Samaritans  added  an  average  of  fourteen  pence, 
dropped  anonymously  into  the  unobtrusive  box  near 
the  cash  desk.  At  the  '  Rosebud '  tips  averaged 
fourteen  shillings  a  week,  but  then  they  were  given 
publicly. 

Besides  her  wages  she  was  given  all  her  meals, 
on  a  scale  suited  to  girls  who  waited  on  Mr  Thirty 
Bob  a  Week.  Her  breakfast  was  tea,  bread  and 
margarine ;  her  dinner,  cold  pudding  or  pie,  accord- 
ing to  the  unpopularity  of  the  dishes  among  the 
customers,  washed  down  once  more  with  tea  and 
sometimes  followed  by  stewed  fruit  if  the  quantity 
that  remained  made  it  clear  that  some  would  be  left 
over.  The  day  ended  with  supper,  tea,  bread  and 
cheese — a  variety  of  Cheddar  which  the  company 
bought  by  the  ton  on  account  of  its  peculiar  capacity 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  157 

for  swelling  and  producing  a  very  tolerable  substitute 
for  repletion. 

As  Victoria  was  now  paid  less  than  half  her  former 
wages  she  was  expected  to  work  longer  hours.  The 
P.  R.  R.  demanded  faithful  service  from  half-past 
eight  in  the  morning  to  nine  in  the  evening,  except 
on  one  day  when  freedom  was  earned  at  six.  Victoria 
was  driven  to  generalise  a  little  about  this ;  it  struck 
her  as  peculiar  that  an  increase  of  work  should 
synchronise  with  a  decrease  of  pay,  but  the  early 
steps  in  any  education  always  fill  the  pupil  with 
wonderment. 

Yet  she  did  not  repine,  for  she  remembered  too  well 
the  black  days  of  the  old  year  when  the  wolf  slunk 
round  the  house,  coming  every  day  nearer  to  her 
door.  She  had  beaten  him  off  and  there  still  was 
joy  in  the  thought  of  that  victory.  Her  fi-ame  of 
mind  was  quiescent,  tempered  still  with  a  feeling  of 
relief.  This  she  shared  with  her  companions,  for 
every  one  of  them  had  known  such  straits  as  hers  and 
worse.  They  had  come  back  to  the  P.  R.  R.  fiUed 
with  exceeding  joy;  craving  bread  they  had  been 
given  buns. 

The  Moorgate  P.  R.  R.  was  a  big  depot.  It  boasted, 
in  addition  to  the  ground  floor,  two  smoking  rooms, 
one  on  the  first  floor  and  one  underground,  as  well  as 
a  ladies'  dining-room  on  the  second  floor.  It  had  a 
staff  of  twenty  waitresses,  six  of  whom  were  stationed 
in  the  underground  smoking-room ;  Victoria  was  one 
of  these.  A  virile  manageress  dominated  them  and 
drove  with  splendid  efficiency  a  concealed  kitchen 
team  of  four  who  sweated  in  the  midst  of  steam  in  an 
underground  stokehole. 

Victoria's  companions  were  all  old  P.  R's  except 
Betty.  They  all  had  anything  between  two  and  five 
years'  service  behind  them.  Nelly,  a  big  raw  boned 
country  girl,  was  still  assertive  and  loud ;  she  had 
good  looks  of  the  kind  that  last  up  to  thirty,  made  up 


158  A  BED   OF  ROSES 

of  fine  coarse  healthy  flesh  lines,  tending  to  redden 
at  the  nostrils  and  at  the  eai-s ;  her  hands  were 
shapely  still,  though  reddened  and  thickened  by 
swabbing  floors  and  tables.  Maud  was  a  poor  little 
thing,  small  boned  with  a  flaccid  covering  of  white 
flesh,  inclined  to  quiver  a  little  when  she  felt 
unhappy ;  her  eyes  were  undecidedly  green,  her  hair 
carroty  in  the  extreme.  She  had  a  trick  of  drawing 
down  the  corners  of  her  mouth  which  made  her  look 
pathetic.  Amy  and  Jenny  were  both  short  and 
darkish,  inclined  to  be  thin,  always  a  little  tired, 
always  willing,  always  in  a  state  neither  happy  nor 
unhappy.  Both  had  nearly  five  years'  experience  and 
could  look  forward  to  another  fifteen  or  so.  They  had 
no  assertiveness,  so  could  not  aspire  to  a  managerial 
position,  such  as  might  eventually  fall  to  the  share 
of  Nelly. 

Betty  was  an  exception.  She  had  not  acquired  the 
P.  R,  R.  manner  and  probably  never  would.  The 
daughter  of  a  small  draper  at  Horley,  she  had  lived 
through  a  happy  childhood,  played  in  the  fields,  been 
to  a  little  private  school.  Her  father  had  strained 
every  nerve  to  face  on  the  one  hand  the  competition 
of  the  London  stores  extending  octopus  like  into  the 
far  suburbs,  on  the  other  that  of  the  pedlars.  Caught 
between  the  aristrocracy  and  the  democracy  of  com- 
merce he  had  slowly  been  ground  down.  When 
Betty  was  seventeen  he  collapsed  through  worry  and 
overwork.  His  wife  attempted  to  carry  on  the 
business  after  his  death,  bravely  facing  the  enemy, 
discharging  assistants,  keeping  the  books,  impressing 
Betty  to  dress  the  window,  then  to  clean  the  shop. 
But  the  pressure  had  become  too  great,  and  on  the 
day  when  the  mortgagees  foreclosed  she  died. 
Nothing  was  left  for  Betty  except  the  clothes  she 
stood  in.  Some  poor  relatives  in  London  induced 
her  to  join  the  '  Lethe.'  That  was  three  years  ago 
and  now  she  was  twenty. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  159 

Betty  was  the  tall  slim  girl  into  whose  breast 
Victoria  had  thrust  her  elbow  when  they  were  fighting 
for  bread  among  the  crowd  which  surged  round  the 
door  of  the  Princes  Street  depot.  She  was  pretty, 
perhaps  a  little  too  delicately  so.  Her  sandy  hair 
and  wide  open  china  blue  eyes  made  one  think  of  a 
doll ;  but  the  impression  disappeared  when  one 
looked  at  her  long  limbs,  her  slightly  sunken  cheeks. 
She  had  a  sweet  disposition,  so  gentle  that,  though 
she  was  a  favourite,  her  fellows  despised  her  a  little 
and  were  inclined  to  call  her  'poor  Betty.'  She  was 
nearly  always  tired  ;  when  she  was  well  she  was  full 
of  simple  and  honest  merriment.  She  would  laugh 
then  if  a  motor  bus  skidded  or  if  she  saw  a  Highlander 
in  a  kilt.  She  had  just  been  shifted  to  the  Moorgate 
Street  P.R.R.  From  the  first  the  two  girls  had  made 
fi-iends  and  Victoria  was  deeply  glad  to  meet  her 
again.  The  depth  of  that  gladness  is  only  known  to 
those  who  have  lived  alone  in  a  hostile  world. 

'  Betty,'  said  Victoria  the  first  morning,  '  there's 
something  I  want  to  say.  I've  had  it  on  my  mind. 
Do  you  remember  the  first  time  we  met  outside 
the  old  P.R.  in  Princes  Street  ?  ' 

'Don't  I?'  said  Betty.  'We  had  a  rough  time, 
didn't  we  ? ' 

'  We  had.  And,  Betty,  perhaps  you  remember  .  .  . 
I  hit  you  in  the  chest.  I've  thought  of  it  so  often  .  .  . 
and  you  don't  know  how  sorry  I  am  when  I  think  of  it.' 

'  Oh,  I  didn't  mind,'  said  Betty,  a  blush  rising  to 
her  forehead,  'I  understand.  I  was  about  starving, 
you  know,  I  thought  you  were  the  same,' 

'No,  not  starving  exactly,'  said  Victoria,  'mad 
rather,  terrified,  like  a  sheep  which  the  dog's  driving. 
But  I  beg  your  pardon,  Betty,  I  oughtn't  to  have 
done  it.' 

Betty  put  her  hand  gently  on  her  companion's. 

'I  understand,  Vic,'  she  said,  'it's  all  over  now; 
we're  friends,  aren't  we  ? ' 


i6o  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Victoria  returned  the  pressure.  That  day  established 
a  tender  link  between  these  two.  Sometimes,  in  the 
slack  of  three  o'clock,  they  would  sit  side  by  side  for 
a  moment,  their  shoulders  touching.  When  they 
met  between  the  tables,  running,  their  foreheads 
beaded  with  sweat,  they  exchanged  a  smile. 

The  customers  at  the  P.R.R.  were  so  many  that 
Victoria  could  hardly  retain  an  impression  of  them. 
A  few  were  curious  though,  in  the  sense  that  they 
were  typical.  One  corner  of  the  room  was  occupied 
during  the  lunch  hour  by  a  small  group  of  chess 
players ;  five  of  the  six  boards  were  regularly  captured 
by  them.  They  sat  there  in  couples,  their  eyes  glued 
to  the  board,  allowing  the  grease  to  cake  slowly  on 
their  food ;  from  time  to  time  one  would  swallow 
a  mouthful,  sometimes  dropping  morsels  on  the 
table.  These  he  would  brush  away  dreamily,  his 
thoughts  far  away,  two  or  three  moves  ahead.  Round 
each  table  sat  a  little  group  of  spectators  who  now 
and  then  shifted  their  plates  and  cups  from  table  to 
table  and  watched  the  games.  At  times,  when  a 
game  ended,  a  table  was  involved  in  a  fierce  discus- 
sion :  gambits,  Morphy's  classical  games,  were  thrown 
about.  On  the  other  side  of  the  room  the  young 
domino-players  noisily  played  matador,  fives  and 
threes,  or  plain  matching,  would  look  round  and 
mutter  a  gibe  at  the  enthusiasts. 

Others  were  more  personal.  One,  a  repulsive 
individual,  Greek  or  Levantine,  patronised  one  of 
Betty's  tables  every  day.  He  was  fat,  yellow  and 
loud ;  over  his  invariably  dirty  hands  drooped 
invariably  dirty  cuffs ;  on  one  finger  he  wore  a  large 
diamond  ring. 

*  It  makes  me  sick  sometimes,'  said  Betty  to 
Victoria,  'you  know  he  eats  with  both  hands  and 
drops  his  food  ;  he  snuffles  too,  as  he  eats,  like  a  pig.' 

Another  was  an  old  man  with  a  beautiful  thin 
brown  face  and  white  hair.    He  sat  at  a  very  small 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  i6i 

table,  so  small  that  lie  was  usually  alone.  Every- 
day he  ordered  dry  toast,  a  glass  of  milk  and  some 
stewed  fruit.  He  never  read  or  smoked,  nor  did  lie 
raise  his  eyes  from  the  table.  An  ancient  bookkeeper 
perhaps,  he  lived  on  some  principle. 

Most  of  the  P.  R.  R.  types  were  scheduled  however. 
They  were  mainly  young  men  or  boys  between  fifteen 
and  twenty.  All  were  clad  in  blue  or  dark  suits, 
wore  flannel  shirts,  dickeys  and  no  cuffs.  They  would 
congregate  in  noisy  groups,  talk  with  furious  energy, 
and  smoke  Virginia  cigarettes  with  an  air  of  dare- 
devilry.  Now  and  then  one  of  these  would  be  sitting 
alone,  reading  unexpected  papers  such  as  the  Times, 
borrowed  from  the  office.  Spasmodically,  too,  one 
would  be  seen  improving  his  mind.  Victoria,  within 
six  months,  noticed  three  starts  on  the  part  of  one 
of  the  boys ;  French,  bookkeeping  and  electrical 
engineering. 

Many  were  older  than  these.  There  were  little 
groups  of  young  men  rather  rakishly  but  shabbily 
dressed  ;  often  they  wore  a  flower  in  their  buttonhole. 
The  old  men  were  more  pathetic;  their  faces  were 
expressionless  ;  they  came  to  eat,  not  to  feast. 

Victoria  and  Betty  had  many  conversations  about 
the  customers.  Every  day  Victoria  felt  her  faculty 
of  wonder  increase ;  she  was  vaguely  conscious 
already  that  men  had  a  tendency  to  revert  to  types, 
but  she  did  not  realise  the  influence  the  conditions  of 
their  lives  had  upon  them. 

'  It's  curious,'  she  once  said  to  Betty,  as  they  left 
the  depot  together,  *  they're  so  much  alike.' 

*  I  suppose  they  are,'  said  Betty,     *I  wonder  why? ' 

*  I'm  not  sure,'  said  Victoria,  '  but  it  seems  to  me 
somehow  that  they  must  be  born  different  but  that 
they  become  alike  because  they  do  the  same  kind 
of  work.' 

'  It's  rather  awful,  isn't  it  ?  '  said  Betty. 
'Awful?     Well,   I  suppose   it  is.     Think  of   it, 
L 


i62  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Betty.  There's  old  Dry  Toast,  for  instance.  Fm 
sure  he's  been  doing  whatever  he  does  do  for  thirty 
or  forty  years.' 

*And'll  go  on  doing  it  till  he  dies,'  murmured 
Betty. 

*  Or  goes  into  the  workhouse,'  added  Victoria.  A 
sudden  and  horrible  lucidity  had  come  over  her. 
'Yes,  Betty,  that's  what  it  means.  The  boys  are 
going  to  be  like  the  old  man  ;  we  see  them  every  day 
becoming  like  him.  First  they're  in  the  twenties 
and  are  smart  and  read  the  sporting  news ;  then  they 
seem  to  get  fat  and  don't  shave  every  day,  because 
they  feel  it's  getting  late  and  it  doesn't  matter  what 
they  look  like ;  their  hair  grows  grey,  they  take  up 
chess  or  German,  or  something  equally  ridiculous. 
They  don't  get  a  chance.  They're  born  and  as  soon, 
as  they  can  kick  they're  thrust  in  an  office  to  do  the 
same  thing  every  day.  Nobody  cares;  all  their 
employers  want  them  to  do  is  to  be  punctual  and  do 
what  they're  paid  thirty  bob  a  week  for.  Soon  they 
don't  try ;  they  die,  and  the  employers  fill  the  billet.' 

'  How  do  you  know  all  this,  Vic  ? '  said  Betty, 
eyeing  her  fearfully.     *  It  seems  so  true.' 

*  Oh,  I  just  felt  it  suddenly,  besides  .  .  .'  Victoria 
hesitated. 

'  But  is  it  right  that  they  should  get  thirty  bob  a 
week  all  their  lives  while  their  employers  are  getting 
thousands  ? '  asked  Betty,  full  of  excitement. 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Victoria  slowly.  Betty's  voice 
had  broken  the  charm.  She  could  no  longer  see 
the  vision. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

The  days  passed  away  horribly  long.  Victoria  was 
now  an  automaton  ;  she  no  longer  felt  much  of  sorrow 
or  of  joy.  Her  home  life  had  been  reduced  to  a 
minimum,  for  she  could  no  longer  afford  the  luxury 
of  '  chambers  in  the  West  End '  as  Betty  put  it.  She 
had  moved  to  Finsbury  ;  where  she  had  found  a  large 
attic  for  three  shillings  a  week,  in  a  house  which  had 
fallen  from  the  state  of  mansion  for  a  City  merchant 
to  that  of  tenement  dwelling.  For  the  first  time 
since  she  returned  to  London  she  had  furnished  her 
own  room.  She  had  bought  out  the  former  tenant 
for  one  pound.  For  this  sum  she  had  entered  into 
possession  of  an  iron  bedstead  with  a  straw  mattress, 
a  thick  horse  cloth,  an  iron  washstand  supplied  with 
a  blue  basin  and  a  white  mug,  an  old  armchair  and 
red  curtains.  She  had  no  sheets,  which  meant  dis- 
comfort but  saved  washing.  A  chair  had  cost  her 
two  shillings ;  she  needed  no  cupboard  as  there  was 
one  in  the  wall ;  in  lieu  of  a  chest  of  drawers  she  had 
her  trunk ;  her  few  books  were  stacked  on  a  shelf 
made  out  of  the  side  of  a  packing  case  and  erected 
by  herself.  She  got  water  from  the  landing  every 
morning  except  when  the  taps  were  frozen.  There 
was  no  fireplace  in  the  attic,  but  in  the  present  state 
of  Victoria's  income  this  did  not  matter  much. 

Every  morning  she  rose  at  seven,  washed,  dressed. 
As  time  went  on  she  ceased  to  dust  and  sweep  every 
morning.  First  she  postponed  the  work  to  the 
evening,  then  to  the  week  end.     On  Sundays  she 

1C3 


i64  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

breakfasted  off  a  stale  loaf  bought  among  tbe  roar  of 
Farrington  Street  the  previous  evening.  A  little 
later  she  introduced  a  spirit  lamp  for  tea;  it  was 
a  revolution,  even  though  she  could  never  muster 
enough  energy  to  bring  in  milk. 

After  the  first  flush  of  possession,  the  horrible 
gloom  of  winter  had  engulfed  her.  Sometimes  she 
sat  and  froze  in  the  attic,  and,  in  despair,  went  to 
bed  after  vainly  trying  to  read  Shakespeare  by  the 
light  of  a  candle :  he  did  not  interest  her  much.  At 
other  times  the  roaring  streets,  the  flares  in  the 
brown  fog,  the  trams  hurtling  through  the  air,  their 
headlights  blazing,  had  frightened  her  back  to  her 
home.  On  Sxmdays,  after  luxuriating  in  bed  until 
ten,  she  usually  went  to  meet  Betty  who  lived  in  a 
club  in  Soho.  Together  they  would  walk  in  the 
parks,  or  the  squares,  wherever  grass  grew.  At 
one  o'clock  Betty  would  introduce  her  as  a  guest 
at  her  club  and  feast  her  for  eightpence  on  roast  beef 
and  pudding,  tea,  and  bread  and  butter.  Then  they 
would  start  out  once  more  towards  the  fields,  some- 
times towards  Hampstead  Heath,  or  if  it  rained  seek 
refuge  in  a  museum  or  a  picture  gallery.  When  they 
parted  in  the  evening,  Victoria  kissed  her  affection- 
ately. Betty  would  then  hold  the  elder  woman  in 
her  arms,  hungrily  almost,  and  softly  kiss  her  again. 

The  only  thing  that  parted  these  two  at  all  was 
the  mystery  which  Betty  guessed  at.  She  knew  that 
Victoria  was  not  like  the  other  girls ;  she  felt  that 
there  was  behind  her  friend's  present  condition  a 
past  of  another  kind,  but  when  she  tried  to  question 
Victoria,  she  found  that  her  friend  froze  up.  And 
as  she  loved  her  this  was  a  daily  grief ;  she  looked 
at  Victoria  with  a  question  in  her  eyes.  But  Victoria 
would  not  yield  to  the  temptation  of  confiding  in  her ; 
she  had  adopted  a  new  class  and  was  not  going  back 
on  it. 

Besides  Betty  there  was  no  one  in  her  life.     None 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  165 

of  the  other  girls  were  able  to  meet  her  on  congenial 
ground  ;  Beauty  had  not  got  her  address  ;  and,  though 
she  had  his,  she  was  too  afraid  of  complicating  her 
life  to  write  to  him.  She  had  sent  her  address  to 
Edward  as  a  matter  of  form,  but  he  had  not  written ; 
apparently  her  desire  for  freedom  had  convinced  him 
that  his  sister  was  mad.  None  of  the  men  at  the 
P.R.R.  had  made  any  decided  advances  to  her.  She 
could  still  catch  every  day  a  glitter  in  the  eye  of 
some  youth,  but  her  maturity  discouraged  the  boys, 
and  the  older  men  were  mostly  too  deeply  sunk  in 
their  feeding  and  smoking  to  attempt  gallantry. 
Besides :  Victoria  was  no  longer  the  cream-coloured 
flower  of  olden  days;  she  was  thinner;  her  hands 
too  were  becoming  coarse  owing  to  her  having  to 
swab  tables  and  floors ;  much  standing  and  the  fetid 
air  of  the  smoking-room  were  making  her  sallow. 

Soon  after  Victoria  entered  into  possession  of  her 
*  station '  she  knew  most  of  her  customers,  knew  them, 
that  is,  as  much  as  continual  rushes  from  table  to 
counter,  from  floor  to  floor,  permits.  The  casuals, 
mostly  young,  left  no  impression;  lacking  money 
but  craving  variety  these  youths  would  patronise 
every  day  a  different  P.R.R. ,  for  they  hoped  to  find 
in  a  novel  arrangement  of  the  counter,  a  new  waitress, 
larger  or  smaller  quarters,  the  element  of  variety 
which  the  bill  of  fare  relentlessly  denied  them.  The 
older  men  were  more  faithful  if  no  more  grateful. 
One  of  them  was  a  short  thin  man,  looking  about 
forty,  who  for  some  hidden  reason  had  aroused 
Victoria's  faded  interest.  His  appearance  was  some- 
what peculiar.  His  shortness,  combined  with  his 
thinness  and  breadth,  was  enough  to  attract  attention. 
Standing  hardly  any  more  than  five  foot  five,  he  had 
disproportionately  broad  shoulders,  and  yet  they  were 
so  thin  that  the  bones  showed  bowed  at  the  back. 
Better  fed,  he  would  have  been  a  bulky  man.  His 
hair  was  dark,  streaked  with  grey ;  and,  as  it  was 


i66  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

getting  very  thin  and  beginning  to  recede,  he  gave 
the  impression  of  having  a  very  high  forehead.  His 
eyes  were  grey,  set  rather  deep  under  thick  eyebrows 
drawn  close  together  into  a  permanent  frown.  Under 
his  rather  coarse  and  irregular  nose  his  mouth  showed 
closely  compressed,  almost  lipless ;  a  curious  muscular 
distortion  had  tortured  into  it  a  faint  sneer.  His 
hands  were  broad,  a  little  coarse  and  very  hairy. 

Victoria  could  not  say  why  she  was  interested  in 
this  man.  He  had  no  outward  graces,  dressed  poorly 
and  obviously  brushed  his  coat  but  seldom ;  his  linen, 
too,  was  not  often  quite  clean.  Immediately  on  sitting 
down  at  his  usual  table  he  would  open  a  book,  prop 
it  up  against  the  sugar  bowl,  and  begin  to  read.  His 
books  did  not  tell  Victoria  much ;  in  two  months  she 
noted  a  few  books  she  did  not  know.  News  from 
Nowhere,  Fahian  Essays,  The  Odyssey,  and  a  book 
with  a  long  title  the  biggest  printed  word  of  which 
was  Niestze  or  Niesche.  Victoria  could  never  re- 
member this  word,  even  though  her  customer  read 
the  book  every  day  for  over  a  month.  The  Odyssey 
she  had  heard  of,  but  that  did  not  tell  her  any- 
thing. 

She  had  found  out  his  name  accidentally.  One  day 
he  had  brought  down  three  books  and  had  put  two 
under  his  seat  while  he  read  the  third.  Soon  after 
he  had  left,  reading  still  while  he  went  up  the  stairs, 
Victoria  found  the  books  under  the  chair.  One  was 
a  Life  of  William  Morris,  the  other  the  Vindication 
of  the  Rights  of  Women.  On  the  flyleaf  of  each  was 
written  in  bold  letters  *  Thomas  Farwell.' 

Victoria  could  not  resist  glancing  at  the  books 
during  her  half  hour  for  lunch.  The  Life  of  William 
Morris  she  did  not  attempt,  remembering  her  experi- 
ences at  school  with  *  Lives '  of  any  kind :  they  were 
aU  dull.  Marie  WoUstonecraft's  book  seemed  more 
interesting,  but  she  seemed  to  have  to  wade  through 
Bo  much  that  she  had  never  heard  of  and  to  have  to 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  167 

face  a  style  so  crabbed  and  congested  that  she  bardly 
understood  it.  Yet,  something  in  the  book  interested 
her,  and  it  was  regretfully  that  she  handed  tbe  volumes 
back  to  Farwell  when  he  called  for  them  at  half-past 
six.  He  thanked  her  in  half  a  dozen  words  and 
left. 

Farwell  continued  regular  in  his  attendance.  He 
came  in  on  the  stroke  of  one,  left  at  half-past  one 
exactly,  lighting  his  pipe  as  he  got  up.  He  never 
spoke  to  anyone ;  when  Victoria  stood  before  his  table 
he  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  gave  his  order  and 
cast  his  eyes  down  to  his  book. 

It  was  about  three  weeks  after  the  incident  of  the 
books  that  he  spoke  to  Victoria.  As  he  took  up  the 
bill  of  fare  he  said  suddenly : 

*  Did  you  read  the  Vi7idicat{on  ? ' 

*I  did  glance  through  it,'  said  Victoria,  feeling, 
she  did  not  know  why,  acutely  uncomfortable. 

'Ah?  interesting,  isn't  it?  Pity  it's  so  badly 
written.     What  do  you  think  of  it  ? ' 

'Well,  I  hardly  know,'  said  Victoria  reflectively; 
*I  didn't  have  time  to  read  much;  what  I  read 
seemed  true.* 

'You  think  that  a  recommendation,  eh?'  said 
Farwell,  his  lips  parting  slightly.  'I'd  have 
thought  you  saw  enough  truth  about  life  here  to  like 
lies.' 

'No,'  said  Victoria,  'I  don't  care  for  lies.  The 
nastier  a  thing  is,  the  better  everybody  should  know 
it ;  then  one  day  people  will  be  ashamed.' 

*  Oh,  an  optimist ! '  sniggered  Farwell.  '  Bless  you, 
my  child.  Give  me  fillets  of  plaice,  small  white 
and  cut.' 

For  several  days  after  this  Farwell  took  no  notice 
of  Victoria.  He  gave  his  order  and  opened  his  book 
as  before.  Victoria  made  no  advances.  She  had 
talked  him  over  with  Betty,  who  had  advised  her  to 
await  events. 


1 68  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  You  never  know,'  she  had  remarked,  as  a  clinching 
argument. 

A  day  or  two  later  Victoria  was  startled  by  Farwell's 
arrival  at  half-past  six.  This  had  never  happened 
before.  The  smoking-room  was  almost  empty,  as  it 
was  too  late  for  teas  and  a  little  too  early  for  suppers. 
Farwell  sat  down  at  his  usual  table  and  ordered  a 
small  tea.  As  Victoria  returned  with  the  cup  he  took 
out  a  book  from  under  two  others  and  held  it  out. 

*  Look  here,'  he  said  a  little  nervously,  *  I  don't 
know  whether  you're  busy  after  hours,  but  perhaps 
you  might  like  to  read  this.'  The  wrinkles  in  his 
forehead  expanded  and  dilated  a  little. 

*  Oh,  thank  you  so  much.  I  would  like  to  read  it,' 
said  Victoria  with  the  ring  of  earnestness  in  her  voice. 
She  took  the  book ;  it  was  a  battered  copy  of  No.  5 
John  Street. 

'  No.  5  ?     What  a  queer  title,'  she  said. 

*  Queer  ?  not  at  all,'  said  Farwell.  *  It  only  seems 
queer  to  you  because  it  is  natural  and  you're  not  used 
to  that.  You're  a  number  in  the  P.R.R.  aren't  you? 
Just  like  the  house  you  live  in.  And  you're  just 
number  so  and  so  ;  so  am  T.  When  we  die  fate  shoves 
up  the  next  number  and  it  all  begins  over  again.' 

'  That  doesn't  sound  very  cheerful,  does  it  ? '  said 
Victoria. 

'  It  isn't  cheerful.     It's  merely  a  fact.' 

*  I  suppose  it  is,'  said  Victoria.  '  Nobody  is  ever 
missed.' 

Farwell  looked  at  her  critically.  The  platitude 
worried  him  a  little  ;  it  was  unexpected. 

*  Yes,  exactly,'  he  stammered.  '  Anyhow,  you  read 
it  and  let  me  know  what  you  think  of  it.'  Thereupon, 
he  took  up  another  book  and  began  to  read. 

When  he  had  gone  Victoria  showed  her  prize  to 
Betty. 

'You're  getting  on,'  said  Betty  with  a  smile. 
'  You'll  be  Mrs  Farwell  one  of  these  days,  I  suppose.* 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  169 

*  Don't  be  ridiculous,  Betty,'  snapped  Victoria,  *  why, 
I'd  have  to  wash,  him.' 

'  You  might  as  well  wash  a  husband  as  a  dish,'  said 
Betty  smoothly.  *  Anyhow,  the  other  girls  are 
talking.' 

'  Let  them  talk,'  said  Victoria  rather  savagely,  *  so 
long  as  they  don't  talk  to  me.' 

Betty  took  her  hand  gently, 

*  Sorry,  Vic  dear,'  she  said.  *  You're  not  angry  with 
me,  are  you  ? ' 

'  No,  of  course  not,  you  silly,'  said  Victoria  laughing. 
*  There  run  away,  or  that  old  gent  at  the  end'll  take 
a  fit.' 

Farwell  did  not  engage  her  in  conversation  for  a 
few  days,  nor  did  she  make  any  advances  to  him. 
She  read  through  No.  5  John  Street  within  three 
evenings ;  it  held  her  with  a  horrible  fascination. 
Her  first  plunge  into  realistic  literature  left  her 
shocked  as  by  a  cold  bath.  In  the  early  days,  at 
Lympton,  she  had  subsisted  mainly  on  Charlotte 
Young  aud  Rhoda  Broughton.  In  India,  the  mess 
having  a  subscription  at  Mudie's,  she  had  had  good 
opportunities  of  reading ;  but,  for  no  particular  reason, 
except  perhaps  that  she  was  newly  married  and  busy 
with  regimental  nothings,  she  had  ceased  to  read 
anything  beyond  the  Sketch  and  the  Sporting 
and  Dramatic.  Thus  she  had  never  heard  of  the 
'  common  people  '  except  as  persons  bom  to  minister 
to  the  needs  of  the  rich.  She  had  never  felt  any 
interest  in  them,  for  they  spoke  a  language  that  was 
not  hers.  No.  5  John  Street,  coming  to  her  a  long 
time  after  the  old  happy  days,  when  she  herself  was 
struggling  in  the  mire,  was  a  horrible  revelation  ;  it 
showed  her  herself,  and  herself  not  as  'Tilda  towering 
over  fate  but  as  Nanc}'-  withering  in  the  india-rubber 
works  for  the  benefit  of  the  Ridler  system. 

She  read  feverishly  by  the  light  of  a  candle.  At 
times  she  was  repelled  by  the  vulgaiity  of  Low 


I70  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Covey,  by  the  grossness  which  seemed  to  revel  in 
poverty  and  dirt.  But  when  she  cast  her  eyes  round 
her  own  bare  walls,  looked  at  her  sheetless  bed, 
a  shiver  ran  over  her. 

*  These  are  my  people,'  she  said  aloud.  The  candle, 
clamouring  for  the  snuffers,  guttered,  sank  low,  nearly 
went  out. 

Shivering  again  before  the  omen,  she  trimmed  the 
wick.  She  returned  the  book  to  Farwell  by  slipping 
it  on  the  table  next  day.  He  took  it  without  a  word 
but  returned  at  half  past  six  as  before. 

*  Well  ? '  he  asked  with  a  faint  smile. 

'Thank  you  so  much,'  said  Victoria.  'It's 
wonderful.' 

'Wonderful  indeed?  Most  commonplace,  don't 
you  think  ? ' 

*  Oh,  no,'  said  Victoria.  *  Its  extraordinary,  it's  like 
.  .  .  like  light.' 

Farwell's  eyes  suddenly  glittered. 

*  Ah,'  he  said  dreamily,  '  light !  light  in  this,  the 
outer  darkness.' 

Victoria  looked  at  him,  a  question  in  her  eyes. 

'If  only  we  could  all  see,'  he  went  on.  'Then,  as 
by  a  touch  of  a  magician's  wand,  flowers  would  crowd 
out  the  thistles,  the  thistles  that  the  asses  eat  and 
thank  their  God  for.  It  is  in  our  hands  to  make  this 
the  Happy  Valley  and  we  make  it  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  of  Death.' 

He  paused  for  a  moment.  Victoria  felt  her  pulse 
quicken. 

'  Yes,'  she  said, '  I  think  I  understand.  It's  because 
we  don't  understand  that  we  suffer.  We're  not  cruel, 
are  we  ?  we're  stupid.' 

'  Stupid  ?  *  A  ferocious  intonation  had  come  into 
Farwell's  voice.  '  I  should  say  so !  Forty  million 
men,  women  and  children  sweat  their  lives  out  day 
by  day  so  that  four  million  may  live  idly  and  become 
too  heavy  even  to  think.     I  could  forgive  them  if 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  171 

they  thought,  but  the  world  contains  only  two  types  : 
Lazarus  with  poor  man's  gout  and  Dives  with  fatty 
degeneration  of  the  brain.' 

Victoria  felt  nervous.  Passion  shook  the  man's 
hands  as  he  clutched  the  marble  top  of  the  table. 

'Mr  Farwell,'  she  faltered,  'I  don't  want  to  be 
stupid.  I  want  to  understand  things.  I  want  to 
know  why  we  slave  twelve  hours  a  day  when  others 
do  nothing  and,  oh,  can  it  be  altered  ? ' 

Farwell  had  started  at  the  mention  of  his  name. 
His  passion  had  suddenly  fallen. 

'Altered?  oh,  yes,'  he  stammered,  'that's  if  the 
race  lasts  long  enough.  Sometimes  I  think,  as  I  see 
men  struggling  to  get  on  top  of  one  another,  like 
crabs  in  a  bucket  .  .  .  Like  crabs  in  a  bucket,'  he 
repeated  dreamily,  visualising  the  simile.  '  But  I 
cannot  draw  men  from  stones,'  he  said  smiling;  'it 
is  not  yet  time  for  Deucalion.  I'U  bring  you  another 
book  to-morrow.' 

Farwell  rose  abruptly  and  left  Victoria  singularly 
stirred.  He  was  a  personality,  she  felt ;  something 
quite  unusual.  He  was  less  a  man  than  a  figment,  for 
he  seemed  top  heavy  almost.  He  concentrated  the 
hearer's  attention  so  much  on  his  spoken  thought 
that  his  body  passed  unperceived,  receded  into  the 
distance. 

While  Victoria  was  changing  to  go,  the  staff  room 
somehow  seemed  darker  and  dirtier  than  ever.  It  was 
seldom  swept  and  never  cleaned  out.  The  manage- 
ment had  thoughtfidly  provided  nothing  but  p  gs  and 
wooden  benches,  so  as  to  discourage  lounging,  e  ictoria 
was  rather  late,  so  that  she  found  herself  alone  with 
Lizzie,  the  cashier.  Lizzie  was  red-haired,  very  curly, 
plump,  pink  and  white.  A  regular  little  spark.  She 
was  very  popular;  her  green  eyes  and  full  curved 
figure  often  caused  a  small  block  at  the  desk. 

'  You  look  tired,'  she  said  good-naturedly. 

*  I  suppose  I  am  ? '  said  Victoria.     *  Aren't  you  ? ' 


17a  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  So  80.     Don't  mind  my  job.* 

*  Mm,  I  suppose  it  isn't  so  bad  sitting  at  tbe  desk.* 

*  No,'  said  Lizzie,  *  pays  too.* 
'Pays?' 

Lizzie  flusbed  and  hesitated.  Then  the  desire  to 
boast  burst  its  bonds.  She  must  tell,  she  must.  It 
didn't  matter  after  aU.  A  craving  for  admiration 
was  on  her. 

*  Tell  you  what,'  she  whispered.  *  I  get  quite  two 
and  a  kick  a  week  out  of  that  job.' 

Victoria's  eyebrows  went  up. 

*  You  know,*  went  on  Lizzie, '  the  boys  look  at  me  a 
bit.'  She  simpered  slightly.  '  Well,  once  one  of 
them  gave  me  half  a  bar  with  a  bob  check.  He  was 
looking  at  me  in  the  eye,  well !  that  mashed,  I  can  tell 
you  he  looked  like  a  boiled  fish.  Sort  of  inspiration 
came  over  me.'     She  stopped. 

*  Well  ? '  asked  Victoria,  feeling  a  little  nervous. 

*  Well  ...  I  ...  I  gave  him  one  half  crown  and 
three  two  bob  pieces.  Smiled  at  him.  He  boned 
the  money  quick  enough,  wanted  to  touch  my  hand 
you  see.     Never  saw  it.' 

Victoria  thought  for  a  moment.  *  Then  you  gave 
him  eight  and  six  instead  of  nine  shillings  ? ' 

*  You've  hit  it.  Bless  you,  he  never  knew.  Mashed, 
I  can  tell  you.* 

*  Then  you  did  him  out  of  sixpence  ?  ' 

'Right.  Comes  off  once  in  three.  Say  "sorry" 
when  I'm  caught  and  smile  and  it's  all  right.  Never 
try  it  twice  on  the  same  man.' 

*I  caU  that  stealing,'  said  Victoria  coldly. 

'You  can  call  it  what  you  like,'  snarled  Lizzie. 
'  Everything's  stealing.  What's  business  ?  getting  a 
quid  for  what  costs  you  a  tanner.  I'm  putting  a  bit 
extra  on  my  wages.' 

Victoria  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  might  have 
argued  with  Lizzie  as  she  had  once  argued  with 
Gertie,  but  the  vague  truth  that  lurked  in  Lizzie's 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  173 

economics  had  deprived  her  of  argument.  Could 
theft  sometimes  be  something  else  than  theft  ?  Were 
all  things  theft  ?  And  above  all,  did  the  acceptance 
of  a  woman's  hand  as  bait  justify  the  hooking  of 
a  sixpence  ? 

As  Victoria  left  for  home  that  night  she  felt  restless. 
She  could  not  go  to  bed  so  soon.  She  walked  through 
the  silent  city  lanes  ;  meeting  nothing,  save  now  and 
then  a  cat  on  the  prowl,  or  a  policeman  trying  doors 
and  flashing  his  bull's  eye  through  the  gratings  of 
banks.  The  crossing  at  Mansion  House  was  still 
busy  with  the  procession  of  omnibuses  converging  at 
the  feet  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  Drays,  too 
heavily  loaded,  rumbled  slowly  past  towards  Liverpool 
Street.  She  turned  northwards,  walked  quickly 
through  the  desert.  At  Liverpool  Street  station  she 
stopped  in  the  blaze  of  light.  A  few  doors  away 
stood  a  shouting  butcher  praying  the  passers-by  to 
buy  his  pretty  meat.  Further  :  a  fishmonger's  stall, 
an  array  of  glistening  black  shapes  on  white  marble, 
a  tobacconist,  a  jeweller — aU  aglow  with  coruscating 
light.  And  over  all,  the  blazing  light  of  arc  lamps, 
under  which  an  unending  stream  of  motor  cabs, 
lorries,  omnibuses  passed  in  kaleidoscopic  colours. 
In  the  full  glare  of  a  lamp  post  stood  a  woman,  her 
feet  in  the  gutter.  She  was  short,  stunted,  dirty  and 
thin  of  face  and  body.  Round  her  wretched  frame 
a  filthy  black  coat  was  tightly  buttoned  ;  her  muddy 
skirt  seemed  almost  falling  from  her  shrunken  hips. 
Crushed  on  her  sallow  face,  hiding  all  but  a  few 
wisps  of  hair,  was  a  battered  black  straw  hat.  With 
one  arm  she  carried  a  child,  thin  of  face  too,  and 
golded-haired.  On  its  upper  lip  a  crusted  sore 
gleamed  red  and  brown.  In  her  other  hand  she  held 
out  a  tin  lid,  in  which  were  five  boxes  of  matches. 

Victoria  looked  at  the  silent  watcher  and  passed  on. 
A  few  minutes  later  she  remembered  her  and  a  fearful 
flood  of  insight  rushed  upon  her.     The  child  ?    Then 


174  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

tliis,  this  creature  had  known  love?  A  man  had 
kissed  those  shrivelled  lips.  Something  like  a  thrill 
of  disgust  ran  through  her.  That  such  things  as 
these  could  love  and  mate  and  bear  children  was 
unspeakable ;  the  very  touch  of  them  was  loathsome, 
their  love  akin  to  unnatural  vice. 

As  she  walked  further  into  Shoreditch  the  im- 
pression of  horror  grew  on  her.  It  was  not  that  the 
lanes  and  little  streets  abutting  into  the  High  Street 
were  full  of  terrors  when  pitch  dark,  or  more  sinister 
still  in  the  pale  yellow  light  of  a  single  gas  lamp  ;  the 
High  Street  itself,  filled  with  men  and  women,  most 
of  them  shabby,  some  loudly  dressed  in  crude  colours, 
shouting,  laughing,  jostling  one  another  ofE  the  foot- 
path was  more  terrible,  for  its  joy  of  life  was  brutal  as 
the  joy  of  the  pugilist  who  feels  his  opponent's  teeth 
crunch  under  his  fist. 

At  a  comer,  near  a  public  house  blazing  with  lights, 
a  small  crowd  watched  two  women  who  were  about 
to  fight.  They  had  not  come  to  blows  yet ;  their  duel 
was  purely  Homeric.  Victoria  listened  with  greedy 
horror  to  the  terrible  recurrence  of  half  a  dozen  words. 

A  child  squirmed  through  the  crowd,  crying,  and 
caught  one  of  the  fighters  by  her  skirt. 

*  Leave  go  .  .  .  I'll  rive  the  guts  out  'o  yer.' 

With  a  swing  of  the  body  the  woman  sent  the  child 
flying  into  the  gutter.  Victoria  hurried  from  the 
spot.  She  made  towards  the  West  now,  between  the 
gin  shops,  the  barrows  under  their  blazing  naphtha 
lamps.     She  was  afraid,  horribly  afraid. 

Sitting  alone  in  her  attic,  her  hands  crossed  before 
her,  questions  intruded  upon  her.  Why  all  this  pain, 
this  violence,  by  the  side  of  life's  graces  ?  Could  it 
be  that  one  went  with  the  other,  indissolubly  ?  And 
could  it  be  altered  before  it  was  too  late,  before  the 
earth  was  flooded,  overwhelmed  with  pain? 

She  shpped  into  bed  and  drew  the  horsecloth  over 
her  ears.     The  world  was  best  shut  out. 


CHAPTER  XXn 

Thomas  Farwell  collected  tliree  volumes  from  his 
desk,  two  pamplilets  and  a  banana.  It  was  six 
o'clock  and,  the  partners  having  left,  he  was  his  own 
master  half  an  hour  earlier  than  usual. 

'  You  off  ? '  said  the  junior  from  the  other  end  of 
the  desk. 

'  Yes.     Half  an  hour  to  the  good.' 

*  What's  the  good  of  half  an  hour  ? '  said  the  youth 
superciliously. 

*No  good  unless  you  think  it  is,  like  everything 
else,'  said  Farwell.  '  Besides,  I  may  be  run  over  by 
half  past  six.' 

'  Cheerful  as  ever,'  remarked  the  junior,  bending 
his  head  down  to  the  petty  cash  balance. 

Farwell  took  no  notice  of  him.  Ten  times  a  day 
he  cursed  himself  for  wasting  words  upon  this 
troglodyte.  He  was  a  youth  long  as  a  day's  starva- 
tion, with  a  bulbous  forehead,  stooping  narrow 
shoulders  and  narrow  lips ;  his  shape  resembled 
that  of  an  old  potato.  He  peered  through  his 
glasses  with  watery  eyes  hardly  darker  than  his 
giey  face. 

*  Good  night,'  said  Farwell  curtly. 

*  Cheer,  oh  ! '  said  the  junior. 

Farwell  slammed  the  door  behind  him.  He  felt 
inclined  to  skip  down  the  stairs,  not  that  anything 
particularly  pleasant  had  happened  but  because  the 
bells  of  St  Botolph's  were  pealing  out  a  chime  of 
fi-eedom.     It  was  six.     He  had  nothing  to  do.     The 

«7I 


176  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

best  thing  was  to  go  to  Moorgate  Street  and  take 
the  books  to  Victoria.  On  second  thoughts,  no,  he 
would  wait.  Six  o'clock  might  stiU  be  a  busy 
time. 

Farwell  walked  down  the  narrow  lane  from  Bishops- 
gate  into  St  Botolph's  churchyard.  It  was  a  dank 
and  dreary  evening,  dark  already.  The  wind  swept 
over  the  paths  in  little  whirlwinds.  Dejected  sparrows 
sought  scraps  of  food  among  the  ancient  graves 
where  office  boys  munch  buns  and  read  of  wood- 
carving  and  desperate  adventure.  He  sat  down  on 
a  seat  by  the  side  of  a  shape  that  slept,  and  opened 
one  of  the  books,  though  it  was  too  dark  to  read. 
The  shape  lifted  an  eyelid  and  looked  at  him. 

Farwell  turned  over  the  pages  listlessly.  It  was 
a  history  of  revolutionists.  For  some  reason  he  hated 
them  to-day,  all  of  them.  Jack  Cade  was  a  boor, 
Cromwell  a  tartufPe,  Bolivar  a  politician,  Mazzini 
a  theorist.     It  would  bore  Victoria. 

Farwell  brought  himself  up  with  a  jerk.  He  was 
thinking  of  Victoria  too  often.  As  he  was  a  man  who 
faced  facts  he  told  himself  quite  plainly  that  he  did 
not  intend  to  fall  in  love  with  her.  He  did  not  feel 
capable  of  love ;  he  hated  most  people,  but  did  not 
believe  that  a  good  hater  was  a  good  lover. 

'  Clever,  of  course,'  he  muttered,  '  but  no  woman 
is  everlastingly  clever.     I  won't  risk  finding  her  out.* 

The  shape  at  his  side  moved.  It  was  an  old  man, 
filthy,  clad  in  blackened  rags,  with  a  matted  beard. 
Farwell  glanced  at  him  and  turned  away. 

'I'd  have  you  poisoned  if  I  could,'  he  thought. 
Then  he  returned  to  Victoria.  Was  she  worth  educa- 
ting? And  supposing  she  was  educated,  what  then  ? 
She  would  become  discontented,  instead  of  brutalised. 
The  latter  was  the  happier  state.  Or  she  would  fall 
in  love  with  him,  when  he  would  give  her  short 
shrift.  What  a  pity.  A  tiny  wave  of  sentiment 
flowed  into  Farwell's  soul. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  nf 

'  Clever,  clever,'  he  thouglit,  '  a  little  house,  babies, 
roses,  a  fox  terrier.' 

'  Gov'nor,'  croaked  a  hoarse  voice  beside  him. 

FarweU  turned  quickly.  The  shape  was  alive, 
then,  curse  it. 

'  Well,  what  d'you  want  ? ' 

*  Give  us  a  copper,  gov'nor,  I'm  an  old  man,  can't 
work.    S'elp  me,  Gawd,  gov'nor,  'aven't  'ad  a  bite.  .  .  .' 

'  That'll  do,  you  fool,'  snarled  Farwell,  '  why  the 
hell  don't  you  go  and  get  it  in  gaol  ?  ' 

*  Yer  don't  mean  that,  gov'nor,  do  yer  ? '  whined 
the  old  man,  '  I  always  kep  my  self  respectable  ;  'ere, 
look  at  these  'ere  testimonials,  gov'nor,  .  .  .'  He  drew 
from  his  coat  a  disgusting  object,  a  bundle  of  papers 
tied  together  with  string. 

*I  don't  want  to  see  them,'  said  Farwell.  'I 
wouldn't  employ  you  if  I  could.  Why  don't  you  go 
to  the  workhouse  ? ' 

The  old  man  almost  bridled. 

'  Why  ?  Because  you're  a  stuck  up.  D'you  hear  ? 
You're  proud  of  being  poor.  That's  about  as  vulgar 
as  bragging  because  you're  rich.  If  you  and  aU  the 
likes  of  you  went  into  the  House,  you'd  reform  the 
system  in  a  week.     Understand  ?  ' 

The  old  man's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  speaker, 
uncomprehending. 

*  Better  stiU,  go  and  throw  any  bit  of  dirt  you  pick 
up  at  a  policeman,'  continued  Farwell.  '  See  he  gets 
it  in  the  mouth.  You  get  locked  up.  Suppose  a 
million  of  the  likes  of  you  do  the  same,  what  d'you 
think  happens  ?  ' 

*  I  dunno,'  said  the  old  man. 

*  Well,  your  penal  system  is  bust.  If  you  offend 
the  law  you're  a  criminal.  But  what's  the  law  ?  the 
opinion  of  the  majority.  If  the  majority  goes  against 
the  law,  then  the  minority  becomes  criminal.  The 
world's  upside  down.'  Farwell  smiled.  '  The  world's 
upside  down,'  he  said  softly,  licking  his  lips. 

M 


178  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  Give  us  a  copper  for  a  bed,  guv'nor,'  said  the  old 
man  dully. 

'What's  the  good  of  a  bed  to  you?'  exploded 
FarweU.     *  Why  don't  you  have  a  drink  ? ' 

*  I'm  a  teetotaller,  guv'nor ;  always  kep'  myself 
respectable.' 

'  Respectable !  You're  earning  the  wages  of 
respectability,  that  is  death,'  said  Farwell  with 
a  wolfish  laugh.  *  Why,  man,  can't  you  see  you've 
been  on  the  wrong  tack  ?  We  don't  want  any  more 
of  you  respectables.  We  want  pirates,  vampires. 
We  want  all  this  society  of  yours  rotted  by  internal 
canker,  so  that  we  can  build  a  new  one.  But  we  must 
rot  it  first.     We  aren't  going  to  work  on  a  sow's  ear.' 

*  Give  us  a  copper,  guv'nor,'  moaned  the  old  man. 
Farwell  took  out  sixpence  and  laid  it  on  the  seat. 

'Now  then,'  he  said,  'you  can  have  this  if  you'll 
Bwear  to  blow  it  in  drink.' 

'I  will,  s'elp  me  Gawd,'  said  the  old  man  eagerly. 

Farwell  pushed  the  coin  towards  him. 

*  Take  it,  teetotaller,'  he  sneered,  *  your  respectable 
system  of  bribery  has  bought  you  for  sixpence.  Now 
let  me  see  you  go  into  that  pub.' 

The  old  man  clutched  the  sixpence  and  staggered 
to  his  feet.  Farwell  watched  the  swing  doors  of  the 
public  bar  at  the  end  of  the  passage  close  behind  him. 
Then  he  got  up  and  walked  away ;  it  was  about  time 
to  go  to  Moorgate  Street. 

As  he  entered  the  smoking-room,  Victoria  blushed. 
The  man  moved  her,  stimulated  her.  When  she  saw 
him  she  felt  like  a  body  meeting  a  soul.  He  sat 
down  at  his  usual  place.  Victoria  brought  him  his 
tea,  and  laid  it  before  him  without  a  word.  Nelly, 
loUing  in  another  corner,  kicked  the  ground,  looking 
away  insolently  from  the  elaborate  wink  of  one  of 
the  scullions. 

*  Here,  read  these,'  said  Farwell,  pushing  two  of  the 
books  across  the  table.     Victoria  picked  them  up. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  179 

'  Looking  Backwards  ? '  slie  said.  *  Oh,  I  don't  want 
to  do  that.     It's  forward  I  want  to  go.' 

'  A  laudable  sentiment,'  sneered  Farwell,  '  the 
theory  of  every  Sunday  School  in  the  country,  and 
the  practice  of  none.  However,  you'll  find  it 
fairly  soul-filling  as  an  unintelligent  anticipation. 
Personally  I  prefer  the  other.  Demos  is  good  stuff, 
for  Gissing  went  through  the  fire.' 

Victoria  quickly  walked  away.  Farwell  looked 
surprised  for  a  second,  then  saw  the  manageress  on 
the  stairs. 

'  Faugh,'  he  muttered,  *  if  the  world's  a  stage  I'm 
playing  the  part  of  a  low  intriguer.' 

He  sipped  his  tea  meditatively.  In  a  few  minutes 
Victoria  returned. 

'  Thank  you,'  she  whispered.  *  It's  good  of  you. 
You're  teaching  me  to  live.' 

Farwell  looked  at  her  critically. 

'  I  don't  see  much  good  in  that,'  he  said,  '  unless 
you've  got  something  to  live  for.  One  of  our 
philosophers  says  you  live  either  for  experience  or  the 
race.  I  recommend  the  former  to  myself,  and  to 
you  nothing.' 

'  Why  shouldn't  I  live  for  anything  ? '  she  asked. 

'  Because  life's  too  dear.  And  its  pleasures  are  not 
white  but  piebald.' 

'  I  understand,'  said  Victoria,  '  but  I  must  live.' 

*Je  ri'en  vois  pas  la  necessite,'  quoted  Farwell 
smiling.  *  Never  mind  what  that  means,'  he  added, 
'I'm  only  a  pessimist.' 

The  next  few  weeks  seemed  to  create  in  Victoria 
a  new  personality.  Her  reading  was  so  carefully 
selected  that  every  line  told.  Farwell  knew  the 
hundred  best  books  for  a  working  girl ;  he  had 
a  large  library  composed  mostly  of  battered  copies 
squeezed  out  of  his  daily  bread.  Victoria's  was  the 
appetite  of  a  gorgon.  In  another  month  she  had 
absorbed  Odd  Women,  An  Enemy  of  the  People,  The 


i8o  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

DolVs  House,  Alton  Locke,  and  a  translation  of 
Germinal.  Every  night  she  read  with  an  intensity 
which  made  her  forget  that  March  chilled  her  to  the 
bone;  poring  over  the  book,  her  eyes  a  few  inches 
from  the  candle,  she  soaked  in  rebellion.  When  the 
cold  nipped  too  close  into  her  she  would  get  up  and 
wrap  herself  in  the  horsecloth  and  read  with  savage 
application,  rushing  to  the  core  of  the  thought.  She 
was  no  student,  so  she  would  skip  a  hard  word. 
Besides,  in  those  moods,  when  the  spirit  bounds  in. 
the  body  like  a  caged  bird,  words  are  felt,  not 
understood. 

Betty  was  still  hovering  round  her,  a  gentle 
presence.  She  knew  what  was  going  on  and  was 
frightened.  A  new  Victoria  was  rising  before  her, 
a  woman  very  charming  still,  but  extraordinary, 
incomprehensible.  Often  Victoria  would  snub  her 
savagely,  then  take  her  hand  as  they  stood  together 
at  the  counter  bawling  for  food  and  drink.  And  as 
Victoria  grew  hard  and  strong  Betty  worshipped  her 
more  as  she  would  have  worshipped  a  strong  man. 

Yet  Bettj^  was  not  happy.  Victoria  lived  now  in 
a  state  ^of  excitement  and  himger  for  solitude.  She 
took  no  interest  in  things  that  Betty  could  understand. 
Their  Sunday  walks  had  been  ruthlessly  cut  now  and 
then,  for  the  fury  was  upon  Victoria  when  eating  the 
fruits  of  the  tree.  When  they  were  together  now 
Victoria  was  preoccupied ;  she  no  longer  listened  to 
the  club  gossip,  nor  did  she  ask  to  be  told  once  more 
the  story  of  Betty's  early  days. 

*  Do  you  know  you're  sweated  ? '  she  said  suddenly 
one  day. 

Betty's  eyes  opened  round  and  blue. 

'Sweated?'  she  said.  *I  thought  only  people  in 
the  East  End  were  sweated.' 

'  The  world's  one  big  East  End,'  snapped  Victoria. 

Betty  shivered.     Farwell  might  have  said  that. 

'You're  sweated  if  you  get  two  pounds  a  week, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  i8i 

continued  Victoria.  *  You're  sweated  when  you  buy 
a  loaf,  sweated  when  you  ride  in  a  bus,  sweated  when 
they  cremate  you.' 

*I  don't  understand,'  said  Betty. 

*  All  profits  are  sweated,'  quoted  Victoria  from  a 
pamphlet. 

'  But  people  must  make  profits,'  protested  Betty. 

'  What  for  ? '  asked  Victoria. 

'How  are  people  to  live  unless  they  make  profits? * 
said  Betty.     '  Aren't  our  wages  profits  ? ' 

Victoria  was  nonplussed  for  a  moment  and  became 
involved.  '  No,  our  wages  are  only  wages ;  profit  is 
the  excess  over  our  wages.' 

*  I  don't  understand,'  said  Betty. 

*  Never  mind,'  said  Victoria,  *  I'll  ask  Mr  Farwell ; 
he'll  make  it  clear.' 

Betty  shot  a  dark  blue  glance  at  her. 

*  Vic,'  she  said  softly,  *  I  think  Mr  Farwell.  .  .  .' 
Then  she  changed  her  mind.  *I  can't,  I  can't,'  she 
thought.  She  crushed  the  jealous  words  down  and 
plimged. 

*  Vic,  darling,'  she  faltered,  *  I'm  afraid  you're  not 
well.  No,  and  not  happy.  I've  been  thinking  of 
something;  why  shouldn't  I  leave  the  Club  and 
come  and  live  with  you.' 

Victoria  looked  at  her  critically  for  a  moment.  She 
thought  of  her  independence,  of  this  affection  hover- 
ing round  her,  sweet,  dangerously  clinging.  But 
Betty's  blue  eyes  were  wet. 

'  You're  too  good  a  pal  for  me,  Betty,'  she  said  in 
a  low  voice.     *  I'd  make  you  miserable.' 

*No,  no,'  cried  Betty  impulsively.  'I'd  love  it, 
Vic  dear,  and  you  would  go  on  reading  and  do  what 
you  like.     Only  let  me  be  with  you.' 

Victoria's  hand  tightened  on  her  friend's  arm. 

*  Let  me  think,  Betty  dear,'  she  said. 

Ten  days  later,  Betty  having  won  her  point,  the 
great  move  was  to  take  place  at  seven  o'clock.    It 


i89  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

certainly  lacked  solemnity.  For  tkree  days  preceding 
the  great  change  Betty  had  hurried  away  from  the 
P.R.R.  on  the  stroke  of  nine,  quickly  kissing  Victoria 
and  saying  she  couldn't  wait  as  she  must  pack. 
Clearly  her  wardrobe  could  not  be  disposed  of  in  a 
twinkling.  Yet,  on  moving  day,  at  seven  o'clock 
sharp  (the  carrier  having  been  thoughtfully  com- 
manded to  deliver  at  five)  a  tin  trunk  kept  together 
by  a  rope,  a  tiny  bath  muzzled  with  a  curtain,  and  a 
hat  box  loudly  advertising  somebody's  tea,  were 
dumped  on  the  doorstep.  The  cart  drove  ofE  leaving 
the  two  girls  to  make  terms  with  a  loafer.  The 
latter  compromised  for  fourpence,  slammed  their 
door  behind  him  and  lurched  down  the  creaking 
stairs.     Betty  threw  herself  into  Victoria's  arms. 

Those  first  days  were  sweet.  Betty  rejoiced  like  a 
lover  in  possession  of  a  long-desired  mistress ;  strip- 
ping off  her  blouse  and  looking  very  pretty,  showing 
her  white  neck  and  slim  arms,  she  strutted  about  the 
attic  with  a  hammer  in  her  hand  and  her  mouth  full 
of  nails.  It  took  an  evening  to  hang  the  curtain 
which  had  muzzled  the  bath ;  Betty's  art  treasures, 
an  oleograph  of  *  Bubbles '  and  another  of  *  I'se 
Biggest,'  were  cunningly  hung  by  Victoria  so  that 
she  could  not  see  them  on  waking  up. 

Betty  was  active  now  as  a  will  o'  the  wisp.  She 
invented  little  feasts,  expensive  Sunday  suppers  of 
fried  fish  and  chips,  produced  a  basket  of  oranges  at 
three  a  penny ;  thanks  to  her  there  was  now  milk 
with  the  tea.  In  a  moment  of  enthusiasm  Victoria 
heard  her  murmur  something  about  keeping  a  cat. 
In  fact  the  only  thing  that  marred  her  life  at  all  was 
Victoria's  absorption  in  her  reading.  Often  Betty 
would  go  to  bed  and  stay  awake,  watching  Victoria 
at  the  table,  her  fingers  ravelling  her  hair,  reading 
with  an  intentness  that  frightened  her.  She  would 
watch  Victoria  and  see  her  face  grow  paler,  except 
at  the  cheeks  where  a  flush  would  rise.    A  wild  look 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  183 

would  come  into  her  eyes.  Sometimes  she  would  get 
up  suddenly  and,  thrusting  her  hair  out  of  her  eyes, 
walk  up  and  down  muttering  things  Betty  could  not 
understand. 

One  night  Betty  woke  up  suddenly,  and  saw 
Victoria  standing  in  the  moonlight  clad  only  in  her 
nightgown.     Words  were  surging  from  her  lips. 

'It's  no  good.  ...  I  can't  go  on.  ...  I  can't 
go  on  until  I  die  or  somebody  marries  me.  .  .  . 
I  won't  marry:  I  won't  do  it.  .  .  .  Why  should  I 
seU  myself  ?  .  .  .  at  any  rate  why  should  I  sell  myself 
cheaply  ? ' 

There  was  a  pause.  Betty  sat  up  and  looked  at 
her  friend's  wild  face. 

*  What's  it  all  mean  after  all  ?  I'm  only  being 
used.  Sucked  dry  like  an  orange.  By  and  by 
they'll  throw  the  peel  away.  Talk  of  brotherhood ! 
.  .  .  It's  war,  war  .  .  .  It's  climbing  and  fighting 
to  get  on  top  .  .  .  like  crabs  in  a  bucket,  like 
crabs  .  .  .' 

*  Vic,'  screamed  Betty. 

Victoria  started  like  a  somnambulist  aroused  and 
looked  at  her  vaguely. 

*  Come  back  to  bed  at  once,'  cried  Betty  with 
inspired  firmness.  Victoria  obeyed.  Betty  drew 
her  down  beside  her  under  the  horsecloth  and  threw 
her  arms  round  her ;  Victoria's  body  was  cold  as  ice. 
Suddenly  she  burst  into  tears ;  and  Betty,  torn  as  if 
she  saw  a  strong  man  weep,  wept  too.  Closely 
locked  in  one  another's  arms  they  sobbed  themselves 
to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXm 

Every  day  now  Victoria's  brain  grew  clearer  and  her 
body  weaker.  A  sullen  spirit  of  revolt  blended  with 
horrible  depression  was  upon  her,  but  she  was  getting 
thinner,  paler;  dark  rings  were  forming  round  her 
eyes.  She  knew  pain  now;  perpetual  weariness, 
twitchings  in  the  ankles,  stabs  just  above  the  knee. 
In  horrible  listlessness  she  dragged  her  weary  feet 
over  the  tiled  floor,  responding  to  commands  like  the 
old  cab  horse  which  can  hardly  feel  the  whip.  In 
this  mood,  growing  churlish,  she  repidsed  Betty, 
avoided  Farwell  and  tried  to  seclude  herself.  She  no 
longer  walked  Holborn  or  the  Strand  where  life  went 
by,  but  sought  the  mean  and  silent  streets,  where 
none  could  see  her  shamble  or  where  none  would  care. 

One  night,  when  she  had  left  at  six,  she  painfully 
crawled  home  and  up  into  the  attic.  At  half -past 
nine  the  door  opened  and  Betty  came  in ;  the  room 
was  in  darkness,  but  something  oppressed  her;  she 
went  to  the  mantlepiece  to  look  for  the  matches,  her 
fingers  trembling.  For  an  eternity  she  seemed  to 
fumble,  the  oppression  growing;  she  felt  that 
Victoria  was  in  the  room,  and  could  only  hope  that 
she  was  asleep.  With  a  great  effort  of  her  will  she 
lit  the  candle  before  turning  round.  Then  she  gave 
a  short  sharp  scream. 

Victoria  was  lying  across  the  bed  dressed  in  her 
bodice  and  petticoat.  She  had  tucked  this  up  to  her 
knees  and  taken  off  her  stockings ;  her  legs  hung  dead 
white  over  the  edge.     At  her  feet  was  the  tin  bath  full 

ll4 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  185 

of  water.  Betty  ran  to  the  bed,  choking  almost,  and 
clasped  her  friend  round  the  neck.  It  was  some 
seconds  before  she  thought  of  wetting  her  face. 
After  some  minutes  Victoria  returned  to  consciousness 
and  opened  her  eyes ;  she  groaned  slightly  as  Betty 
lifted  up  her  legs  and  straightened  her  on  the  bed. 

It  was  then  that  Betty  noticed  the  singular  appear- 
ance of  Victoria's  legs.  They  were  covered  with  a 
network  of  veins,  some  narrow  and  pale  blue  in 
colour,  others  darker,  protruding  and  swollen ;  on 
the  left  calf  one  of  the  veins  stood  out  like  a  rope. 
The  unaccustomed  sight  filled  her  with  the  horror 
bred  of  a  mysterious  disease.  She  was  delicate,  but 
had  never  been  seriously  ill;  this  sight  fiUed  her 
with  physical  repulsion.  For  her  the  ugliness  of 
it  meant  foulness.  For  a  moment  she  almost  hated 
Victoria,  but  the  sight  of  the  tin  bath  full  of  water 
cut  her  to  the  heart;  it  told  her  that  Victoria, 
maddened  by  mysterious  pain,  had  tried  to  assuage 
it  by  bathing  her  legs  in  the  cold  water. 

Little  by  little  Victoria  came  round;  she  smiled 
at  Betty. 

*  Did  I  faint,  Betty  dear  ? '  she  asked. 

*  Yes,  dear.     Are  you  better  now  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I'm  better ;  it  doesn't  hurt  now.' 
Betty  could  not  repress  a  question. 

*  Vic,'  she  said,  *  what  is  it  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Victoria  fearfully,  then  more 
cheerfully, 

*  I'm  tired  I  suppose.    I  shall  be  all  right  to-morrow.' 
Then  Betty  refused  to  let  her  talk  any  more,  and 

soon  Victoria  slept  by  her  side  the  sleep  of  exhaustion. 
The  next  morning  Victoria  insisted  upon  going  to 
the  P.  R.  R.  in  spite  of  Betty  suggesting  a  doctor. 

*  Can't  risk  losing  my  job,'  she  said  laughing. 
'  Besides  it  doesn't  hurt  at  all  now.     Look.' 

Victoria  lifted  up  her  nightshirt.  Her  calves  were 
again  perfectly  white  and  smooth ;  the  thin  network 


i86  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

of  veins  had  sunk  in  again  and  showed  blue  under 
the  skin.  Alone  one  vein  on  the  left  leg  seemed  dark 
and  angry.  Victoria  felt  so  well,  however,  that  she 
agreed  to  meet  Farwell  at  a  quarter-past  nine.  This 
was  their  second  expedition,  and  the  idea  of  it  was  a 
stimulant.  He  went  with  her  up  to  Finsbury  Pavement 
and  stopped  at  a  small  Italian  restaurant. 

*  Come  in  here  and  have  some  coffee,'  he  said,  *  they 
have  waiters  here  ;  that'll  be  a  change.' 

Victoria  followed  him  in.  They  sat  at  a  marble 
topped  table,  flooded  with  light  by  incandescent  gas. 
In  the  glare  the  waiters  seemed  blacker,  smaller  and 
more  stunted  than  by  the  light  of  day.  Their  faces 
were  pallid,  with  a  touch  of  green:  their  hair  and 
moustaches  were  almost  blue  black.  Their  energy 
was  that  of  automata.  Victoria  looked  at  them, 
melting  with  pity. 

'  There's  a  life  for  you,'  said  Farwell  interpreting 
her  look.  *  Sixteen  hours'  work  a  day  in  an  atmosphere 
of  stale  food.  For  meals,  plate  scourings.  For  sleep 
and  time  to  get  to  it,  eight  hours.  For  living,  the  rest 
of  the  day.' 

*  It's  awful,  awful,'  said  Victoria.  *  They  might  as 
well  be  dead.' 

*  They  will  be  soon,'  said  Farwell,  *  but  what  does 
that  matter?  There  are  plenty  of  waiters.  In  the 
shadow  of  the  olive  groves  to-night  in  far  off  Calabria, 
at  the  base  of  the  vine-clad  hills,  couples  are  walking 
hand  in  hand,  with  passion  flashing  in  their  eyes. 
Brown  peasant  boys  are  clasping  to  their  breast  young 
girls  with  dark  hair,  white  teeth,  red  lips,  hearts  that 
beat  and  quiver  with  ecstasy.  They  tell  a  tale  of  love 
and  hope.     So  we  shall  not  be  short  of  waiters,' 

*  Why  do  you  sneer  at  everything,  Mr  Farwell  ? ' 
said  Victoria.  '  Can't  you  see  anything  in  life  to 
make  it  worth  while  ? ' 

*  No,  I  cannot  say  I  do.  The  pursuit  of  a  living 
debars  me  from  the  enjoyments  that  make  living 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  187 

worth,  while.  But  never  miud  me  :  I  am  over  without 
having  bloomed.  I  brought  you  here  to  talk  of  you, 
not  of  me.' 

*  Of  me,  Mr  Farwell  ? '  asked  Victoria.  '  What  do 
you  want  to  know  ?  ' 

FarweU  leant  over  the  table,  toyed  with  the  sugar 
and  helped  himself  to  a  piece.  Then  without  looking 
at  her : 

*  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Victoria? '  he  asked. 

*  Matter  with  me  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? '  said 
Victoria,  too  disturbed  to  notice  the  use  of  her 
Christian  name. 

The  man  scrutinised  her  carefully.  *  You're  ill/ 
he  said.  '  Don't  protest.  You're  thin ;  there  are 
purple  pockets  under  your  eyes;  your  underlip  is 
twisted  with  pain,  and  you  limp.' 

Victoria  felt  a  spasm  of  anger.  There  was  still  in 
her  the  ghost  of  vanity.  But  she  looked  at  FarweU 
before  answering ;  there  was  gentleness  in  his  eyes. 

*  Well,'  she  said  slowly,  *  if  you  must  know,  perhaps 
there  is  something  wrong.     Pains.' 

*  Where  ? '  he  asked. 

*  In  the  legs,'  she  said  after  a  pause. 

*  Ah,  swellings  ? ' 

Victoria  bridled  a  little.  This  man  was  laying 
bare  something,  tearing  at  a  secret. 

*  Ai-e  you  a  doctor,  Mr  FarweU  ?  '  she  asked  coldly. 

*  That's  all  right,'  he  said  roughly,  '  it  doesn't  need 
much  learning  to  know  what's  the  matter  with  a  girl 
who  stands  for  eleven  hours  a  day.  Are  the  veins  of 
your  legs  swollen  ?  ' 

'Yes,'  said  Victoria  with  an  effort.  She  was 
frightened ;  she  forgot  to  resent  this  wrenching  at 
the  privacy  of  her  body. 

'  Ah ;  when  do  they  hurt  ?  * 

*  At  night.     They're  aU  right  in  the  morning.' 
'You've  got  varicose  veins,  Victoria.     You  must 

give  up  your  job,' 


i88  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*I  can't,'  whispered  the  girl  hoarsely.  'I've  got 
nothing  else.' 

*  Exactly.  Either  you  go  on  and  are  a  cripple  for 
life  or  you  stop  and  starve.  Yours  is  a  disease  of 
occupation,  purely  a  natural  consequence  of  your 
work.  Perfectly  normal,  perfectly.  It  is  undesirable 
to  encourage  laziness ;  there  are  girls  starving  to-day 
for  lack  of  work,  but  it  would  never  do  to  reduce  your 
hours  to  eight.  It  would  interfere  with  the  P.  R.  R. 
dividends.* 

Victoria  looked  at  him  without  feeling. 

*  What  am  I  to  do  ? '  she  asked  at  length. 

*  Go  to  a  hospital,'  said  Farwell.  *  These  institu- 
tions are  run  by  the  wealthy  who  pay  two  guineas 
a  year  ransom  for  a  thousand  pounds  of  profits  and 
get  in  the  bargain  a  fine  sense  of  civic  duty  done. 
No  doubt  the  directors  of  the  P.R.R.  contribute  most 
generously.' 

*  I  can't  give  up  my  job,'  said  Victoria  dully. 

*  Perhaps  they'll  give  you  a  stocking,'  said  Farwell, 
*  or  sell  it  you,  letting  you  pay  in  instalments  so  that 
you  be  not  pauperised.  This  is  called  training  in 
responsibility,  also  self-help.' 

Victoria  got  up.  She  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
Farwell  saw  her  home  and  made  her  promise  to  apply 
for  leave  to  see  the  doctor.  As  the  door  closed 
behind  her  he  stood  still  for  some  minutes  on  the 
doorstep,  filling  his  pipe. 

'Well,  well,'  he  said  at  length,  'the  Government 
might  think  of  that  lethal  chamber — but  no,  that 
would  never  do,  it  would  deplete  the  labour  market 
and  hamper  the  commercial  development  of  the 
Empire.' 

He  walked  away,  a  crackling  little  laugh  floating 
behind  him.  The  faint  light  of  a  lamp  fell  on 
his  bowed  head  and  shoulders,  making  him  look  like 
a  Titan  bom  a  dwarf. 

Two  days  later  Victoria  went  to  the  Carew.    She 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  189 

had  never  before  set  foot  in  a  hospital.  Such  inter- 
course as  she  had  had  with  doctors  was  figured  by- 
discreet  interviews  in  dark  studies  filled  with  un- 
speakably ugly  and  reassuringly  solid  furniture. 
Those  doctors  had  patted  her  hand,  said  she  needed 
a  little  change  or  may  be  a  tonic.  At  the  Carew, 
fed  as  it  is  by  the  misery  of  two  square  miles  of 
North  East  London,  the  revelation  of  pain  was 
dazzling,  apocalyptic.  The  sight  of  the  benches 
crowded  with  women  and  children—  some  pale  as 
corpses,  others  flushed  with  fever,  some  with  faces 
bandaged  or  disfigured  by  sores — almost  made  her 
sick.  They  were  packed  in  serried  rows;  the 
children  almost  all  cried  persistently,  except  here 
and  there  a  baby,  who  looked  with  frightful  fixity 
at  the  glazed  roof.  From  all  this  chattering  crowd 
of  the  condemned  rose  a  stench  of  iodoform,  perspira- 
tion, unwashed  bodies,  the  acrid  smell  of  poverty. 

The  little  red-haired  Scotch  doctor  dismissed 
Victoria's  case  in  less  than  one  minute. 

'  Varicose  veins.  Always  wear  a  stocking.  Here's 
your  form.  Settle  terms  at  the  truss  office.  Don't 
stand  on  your  feet.     Oh,  what's  your  occupation  ? ' 

'  Waitress  at  the  P.R.R.,  Sir.' 

'  Ah,  hum.     You  must  give  it  up.' 

•I  can't.  Sir.' 

*  It's  your  risk.     Come  again  in  a  month.' 

Victoria  puUed  up  her  stockings.  Walking  in  a 
dream  she  went  to  the  truss  office  where  a  man 
measured  her  calves.  She  felt  numb  and  indifferent 
as  to  the  exposure  of  her  body.  The  man  looked 
enquiringly  at  the  left  calf. 

'  V.H.  for  the  left,'  he  called  over  his  shoulder  to 
the  clerk. 

At  twelve  o'clock  she  was  in  the  P.R.R.,  revived 
by  the  familiar  atmosphere.  She  even  rallied  one  of 
the  old  chess  players  on  a  stroke  of  ill-luck.  Towards 
four  o'clock  her  ankles  began  to  twitch. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

Through  all  ttese  anxious  times,  Betty  watched  over 
Victoria  with,  the  devotion  that  is  born  of  love. 
There  was  in  the  girl  a  reserve  of  maternal  sweetness 
equalled  only  by  the  courage  she  showed  every  day. 
Slim  and  delicate  as  she  seemed,  there  was  in  Betty's 
thin  body  a  strength  all  nervous  but  enduring.  She 
did  not  complain,  though  driven  eleven  or  twelve 
hours  a  day  by  the  eyes  of  the  manageress ;  those 
eyes  were  sharp  as  a  goad,  but  she  went  cheerfully. 

In  a  sense  Betty  was  happy.  The  work  did  not 
weigh  too  heavily  upon  her ;  there  was  so  much 
humility  in  her  that  she  did  not  resent  the  roughness 
of  her  companions.  Nelly  could  snub  her,  trample 
at  times  on  her  like  the  cart  horse  she  was ;  the 
manageress  too  could  freeze  her  with  a  look,  the 
kitchen  stafE  disregard  her  humble  requests  for  teas 
and  procure  for  her  the  savage  bullying  of  the 
customers,  yet  she  remained  placid  enough. 

*  It's  a  hard  life,'  she  once  said  to  Victoria,  *  but 
I  suppose  it's  got  to  be.'     This  was  her  philosophy. 

*  But  don't  you  want  to  get  out  of  it  ? '  cried 
Victoria  the  militant. 

*  I  don't  know,'  said  Betty.     *  I  might  marry.' 

*  Marry,'  sniffed  Victoria.  *  You  seem  to  think 
marriage  is  the  only  way  out  for  women.' 

'Well,  isn't  it?'  asked  Betty.  'What  else  is 
there  ? ' 

And  for  the  life  of  her  Victoria  could  not  find 
another  occupation  for  an  unskilled  girl.     Milliners, 

190 

\ 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  191 

dressmakers,  clerks,  typists,  were  all  frightfully 
underpaid  and  overworked ;  true  there  were  women 
doctors,  but  who  cared  to  employ  them?  And 
teachers,  but  they  earned  the  wages  of  virtue: 
neglect.  Besides  it  was  too  late  ;  both  Victoria  and 
Betty  were  unskilled,  condemned  by  their  sex  to  low 
pay  and  hard  work. 

'  It's  frightful,  frightful,'  cried  Victoria.  *  The  only 
use  we  are  is  to  do  the  dirty  work.  Men  don't  char. 
Of  course  we  may  marry,  if  we  can,  to  any  of  those 
gods  if  they'll  share  with  us  their  thirty  bob  a  week. 
Talk  of  slaves !     They're  better  ofE  than  we.' 

Betty  looked  upon  all  this  as  rather  wild,  as  a 
consequence  of  Victoria's  illness.  Her  view  was  that 
it  didn't  do  to  complain,  and  that  the  only  thing  to 
do  was  to  make  the  best  of  it.  But  she  loved  Victoria, 
and  it  was  almost  a  voluptous  joy  for  her  to  help  her 
friend  to  undress  every  night,  to  tempt  her  with  little 
offerings  of  fruit  and  flowers.  When  they  woke  up, 
Betty  would  draw  her  friend  into  her  arms  and  cover 
her  face  with  gentle  kisses. 

But  as  Victoria  grew  worse,  stiffer,  and  slower, 
responding  ever  more  reluctantly  to  the  demands 
made  upon  her  all  day  at  the  P.  R.  R.,  Betty  was 
conscious  of  horrible  anxiety.  Sometimes  her 
imagination  would  conjure  up  a  Victoria  helpless, 
wasted,  bedridden,  and  her  heart  seemed  to  stop. 
But  her  devotion  was  proof  against  egoism.  What- 
ever happened,  Victoria  should  not  starve  if  she  had  to 
pay  the  rent  and  feed  herself  on  nine  shillings  or 
60  a  week  until  she  was  well  again  and  beautiful  as 
she  had  been.  Her  anxiety  increasing,  she  mustered 
up  courage  to  interview  Farwell,  whom  she  hated 
jealously.  He  had  ruined  Victoria,  she  thought 
— made  her  wild,  discontented,  rebellious  against  the 
incurable.  Yet  he  knew  her,  and  at  any  rate  she 
must  talk  about  it  to  somebody.  So  she  mustered  up 
courage  to     1  nim  to  mee^        at  nine. 


1 9a  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

'Well?'  said  Farwell.  He  did  not  like  Betty 
much.  He  included  her  among  the  poor  creatures, 
the  rubble. 

*  Oh,  Mr  Farwell,  what's  going  to  happen  to 
Victoria  ? '  cried  Betty,  with  tears  in  her  voice.  Then 
she  put  her  hand  against  the  railings  of  Finsbury 
Circus.  She  had  prepared  a  dignified  little  speech, 
and  her  suffering  had  burst  from  her.  The  indignity 
of  it. 

*  Happen  ?  The  usual  thing  in  these  cases.  She'll 
get  worse  ;  the  veins  will  burst  and  she'll  be  crippled 
for  life.' 

Betty  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  blazing  with  rage. 

*  How  dare  you,  how  dare  you  ? '  she  growled. 
Farwell  laughed. 

*  My  dear  young  lady,'  he  said  smoothly,  *  it  needs 
no  doctor  to  tell  you  what  is  wanted.  Victoria  must 
stop  work,  lie  up,  be  well  fed,  live  in  the  country 
perhaps  and  her  spirits  must  be  raised.  To  this 
effect  I  would  suggest  a  pretty  house,  flowers,  books, 
some  music,  say  a  hundred-guinea  grand  piano,  some 
pretty  pictures.  So  that  she  may  improve  in  health 
it  is  desirable  that  she  should  have  servants.  These 
may  gain  varicose  veins  by  waiting  on  her,  but  that 
is  by  the  way.' 

Betty  was  weeping  now.  Tear  after  tear  rolled 
down  her  cheeks. 

*  But  all  this  costs  money,'  continued  Farwell,  *  and, 
as  you  are  aware,  bread  is  very  dear  and  flesh  and 
blood  very  cheap.  Humanity  finds  the  extraction  of 
gold  a  toilsome  process,  whilst  the  production  of 
children  is  a  normal  recreation  which  eclipses  even 
the  charms  of  alcohol.  There,  my  child,  you  have  the 
problem  ;  and  there  is  only  one  radical  solution  to  it.' 

Betty  looked  at  him,  intuitively  guessing  the 
horrible  suggestion. 

*  The  solution,'  said  Farwell,  *  is  to  complain  to  the 
doctor  of  insomnia,  get  him  to  prescribe  laudanum 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  193 

and  sink  your  capital  in  the  purchase  of  half  a  pint. 
One's  last  investment  is  generally  one's  best.' 

'  Oh,  I  can't  hear  it,  I  can't  bear  it,'  wailed  Betty. 

*  She's  so  beautiful,  so  clever.' 

'  Ah,  yes,'  said  Farwell  in  his  dreamy  manner,  *  but 
then  you  see  when  a  woman  doesn't  marry.  .  .  .' 
He  broke  off,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  grey  pavement. 

*  The  time  will  come,  Betty,  when  the  earth  will  be 
not  only  our  eternal  bed,  but  the  fairy  land  where 
joyful  flowers  will  grow.  Ah !  it  will  be  joyful, 
joyful,  this  crop  of  flowers  born  from  seas  of  blood.' 

'  But,  now,  now,  what  can  we  do  with  her  ? ' 
cried  Betty. 

'  I  have  no  other  suggestion  if  she  will  not  fight,' 
growled  Farwell  in  his  old  manner.  '  She  must  sink 
or  swim.  If  she  sinks  she's  to  blame,  I  suppose.  In 
a  world  of  pirates  and  cut-throats  she  will  have  elected 
to  be  a  saint,  and  the  martyr's  crown  will  be  hers.  If 
suicide  is  not  to  her  taste,  I  would  recommend  her 
to  resort  to  what  is  called  criminal  practices.  Being 
ill,  she  has  magnificent  advantages  if  she  wishes  to  start 
business  as  a  begging-letter  writer ;  burglary  is  not 
suitable  for  women,  but  there  are  splendid  openings 
for  confidence  tricksters  and  shoplifting  would  be 
a  fine  profession  if  it  were  not  overcrowded  by  the 
upper  middle  classes.' 

Betty  dabbed  her  eyes  vigorously.  Her  mouth 
tightened.  She  looked  despairingly  at  the  desolate 
half  circle  of  London  Wall  Buildings  and  Salisbury 
House.  Then  she  gave  Farwell  her  hand  for  a 
moment  and  hurriedly  walked  away.  As  she  entered 
the  attic  the  candle  was  still  burning.  Victoria  was 
in  bed  and  had  forgotten  it ;  she  had  already  fallen 
into  stertorous  sleep. 

Next  morning  Victoria  got  up  and  dressed  silently. 
She  did  not  seem  any  worse  ;  and  with  this  Betty  was 
content,  though  she  only  got  short  answers  to  her 
questions.     All  that  day  Victoria  seemed  well  enough. 

N 


194  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

She  walked  springily ;  at  times  she  exchanged  a  quick 
joke  with  a  customer.  She  laughed  even  when  a 
young  man,  carried  away  for  a  moment  beyond  the 
spirit  of  food  which  reigned  supreme  in  the  P.R.R., 
touched  her  hand  and  looked  into  her  eyes. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  Victoria  felt  creeping  over 
her  the  desperate  weariness  of  the  hour. 

At  a  quarter  to  six  she  made  up  her  checks.  There 
was  a  shortfall  of  one  and  a  penny. 

'  How  do  you  account  for  it  ? '  asked  the  manageress. 

*  Sure  I  don't  know,  Miss,'  said  Victoria  helplessly. 

*  I  aways  give  checks.  Somebody  must  have  slipped 
out  without  paying.' 

*  Possibly.  The  manageress  grew  more  tense  faced 
than  ever.  Her  bust  expanded.  *I  don't  care.  Of 
course  you  know  the  rule.  You  pay  half  aiid  the 
desk  pays  half.' 

*  I  couldn't  help  it,  Miss,'  said  Victoria  miserably. 
Sixpence  halfpenny  was  a  serious  loss. 

*  No  more  could  I.  i  think  I  can  tell  you  how 
it  happened,  though,'  said  the  manageress  with  a 
vague  smile.  *I'm  an  old  hand.  A  customer  of 
yours  had  a  tuck  out  for  one  and  a  penny.  You 
gave  him  a  check.  Look  at  the  foil  and  you'll 
see.' 

'  Yes,  Miss,  here  it  is,'  said  Victoria  anxiously. 

'Very  well.  Then  he  went  upstairs  on  the  Q.T. 
and  had  a  cup  of  coffee.    Follow  !  * 

'  Yes,  Miss.' 

'One  of  the  girls  gave  him  a  twopenny  check. 
Then  he  went  out  and  handed  in  the  twopenny 
check.    "He  kept  the  other  one  in  his  pocket.' 

*  Oh,  Miss.  .  .  .  it's  stealing,' Victoria  gasped. 
'  It  is.     But  there  it  is,  you  see.' 

*  But  it's  not  my  fault,  Miss  ;  if  you  had  a  pay  box 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  I  don't  say  .  .  .' 

*  Oh,  we  can't  do  that,'  said  the  manageress  icilyf 

*  they  would  cost  a  lot  to  build  and  extra  staff  and 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  195 

we  must  keep  down  expenses,  you  know.  Competition 
is  very  keen  in  this  trade.' 

Victoria  felt  stunned.  Tke  incident  was  as  full  of 
revelations  as  Lizzie's  practices  at  tlie  desk.  The 
girls  cheated  the  customers,  the  customers  the  girls. 
And  the  P.R.R.  sitting  olympian  on  its  pillar  of 
cloud,  exacted  from  all  its  dividends.  The  P.R.R. 
suddenly  loomed  up  before  Victoria's  eyes  as  a  big 
swollen  monster  in  whose  veins  ran  China  tea.  And 
from  its  nostrils  poured  forth  torrents  of  coffee- 
scented  steam.  It  grew  and  grew,  and  fed  men  and 
women,  every  now  and  then  extending  a  talgn  and 
seizing  a  few  young  girls  with  sore  legs,  a  rival  cafe 
or  two.  Then  it  vanished.  Victoria  was  looking  at 
one  of  the  large  plated  urns. 

'  All  right,'  she  said  sullenly,  '  I'll  pay.' 

As  it  was  her  day  off,  at  six  o'clock  Victoria  went 
up  to  the  change  room,  saying  good -night  to  Betty, 
telling  her  she  was  going  out  to  get  some  fresh  air. 
She  thought  it  would  do  her  good,  so  rode  on  a  bus 
to  the  Green  Park.  Round  her,  in  Piccadilly,  a  tide 
of  rich  life  seemed  to  rise  redolent  with  scent,  soft 
tobacco,  moist  furs,  all  those  odours  that  herald  and 
follow  wealth.  A  savagery  was  upon  her  as  she 
passed  along  the  club  windows,  now  full  of  young 
men  telling  tales  that  made  their  teeth  shine  in  the 
night,  of  old  men,  red,  pink,  brown,  healthy  in  colour 
and  in  security,  reading,  sleeping,  eking  out  life. 

The  picture  was  familiar  ;  for  it  was  the  picture  she 
had  so  often  seen  when,  as  a  girl,  she  came  up  to 
town  from  Lympton  for  a  week  to  shop  in  Oxford 
Street  and  see,  from  the  upper  boxes,  the  three  or  four 
plays  recommended  by  Hearth  and  Home.  Piccadilly 
had  been  her  Mecca.  It  had  represented  mysterious 
delights,  restaurants,  little  teashops,  jewellers,  makers 
of  cunning  cases  for  everything.  She  had  never  been 
well-off  enough  to  shop  there,  but  had  gazed  into  its 
windows  and  bought  the  nearest  imitations  in  Oxford 


196  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Street.  Then  the  clubs  had  been,  if  not  familiar,  at 
any  rate  friendly.  She  had  once  with  her  mother  called 
at  the  In  and  Out  to  ask  for  a  general.  He  was  dead 
now,  and  so  was  Piccadilly. 

Victoria  remembered  without  joy :  a  sign  of  total 
flatness,  for  the  mind  that  does  not  glow  at  the  thought 
of  the  glamorous  past  is  dulled  indeed.  Piccadilly 
struck  her  now  rather  as  a  show  and  a  poor  one,  a 
show  of  the  inefficients  basking,  of  the  wretched 
shuffling  by.  And  the  savagery  that  was  upon  her 
waxed  fat.  Without  ideals  of  ultimate  brotherhood 
or  love  she  could  not  help  thinking,  half  amused,  of 
the  dismay  that  would  come  over  London  if  a  bomb 
were  suddenly  to  raze  to  the  ground  one  of  these 
shrines  of  men. 

The  bus  stopped  in  a  block  just  opposite  one  of  the 
clubs ;  and  Victoria,  from  the  off-side  seat,  could  see 
across  the  road  into  one  of  the  rooms.  There  were  in 
it  a  dozen  men  of  all  ages,  most  of  them  standing  in 
small  groups,  some  already  in  evening-dress  ;  some 
lolled  on  enormous  padded  chairs  reading,  and,  against 
the  mantlepiece  where  a  fire  burned  brightly,  a  youth 
was  telling  an  obviously  successful  story  to  a  group 
of  oldsters.  Their  ease,  their  conviviality  and  facile 
friendship  stung  Victoria ;  she  felt  an  outcast.  What 
had  she  now  to  do  with  these  men  ?  They  would  not 
know  her.  Their  sphere  was  their  father's  sphere,  by 
right  of  birth  and  wealth,  not  hers  who  had  not  the 
right  of  wealth.  Besides,  perhaps  some  were  share- 
holders in  the  P.R.R.  Painfully  shambling  down  the 
steps,  Victoria  got  off  the  bus  and  entered  the  Green 
Park.  She  sat  down  on  a  seat  under  a  tree  just 
bursting  into  bud. 

For  many  minutes  she  looked  at  the  young  grass, 
at  the  windows  where  lights  were  appearing,  at  a  man 
seated  near  by  and  puffing  rich  blue  smoke  fi'om  his 
cigar.  A  loafer  lay  face  down  on  the  grass,  like  a 
bimdle.    Her  moods  altered   between   rage,  as  she 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  197 

looked  at  the  two  men,  and  misery  as  she  realised  that 
her  lot  was  cast  with  the  wretch  grovelling  on  the 
cold  earth. 

She  noticed  that  the  man  with  the  cigar  was  watch- 
ing her,  but  hardly  looked  at  him.  He  was  fat,  that 
was  all  she  knew.  Her  eyes  once  more  fastened  on 
the  loafer.  He  had  not  fought  the  world ;  would 
she  ?  and  how  ?  Now  and  then  he  turned  a  little  in 
his  sleep,  dreaming  perhaps  of  feasts  in  Cockayne, 
perhaps  of  the  skilly  he  had  tasted  in  gaol,  of  love 
perhaps,  bright-eyed,  master  of  the  gates.  It  was 
cold,  for  the  snap  of  winter  was  in  the  spring  air  ;  in 
the  pale  western  sky  the  roofs  loomed  black.  Already 
the  dull  glow  of  London  light  rose  like  a  halo  over 
the  town.  Victoria  did  not  seem  to  feel  the  wind ; 
she  was  a  little  numb,  her  legs  felt  heavy  as  lead.  A 
gust  of  wind  carried  into  her  face  a  few  drops  of  rain. 

The  man  with  the  cigar  got  up,  slowly  passed  her ; 
there  was  something  familiar  in  his  walk.  He  turned 
so  as  to  see  her  face  in  the  light  of  a  gas-lamp.  Then 
he  took  three  quick  steps  towards  her.  Her  heart 
was  already  throbbing ;  she  felt  and  yet  did  not  know. 

*  Victoria,'  said  the  man  in  a  faint,  far  away  voice. 
Victoria  gasped,  put  her  hand  on  her  heart,  swaying 

on  the  seat.  The  man  sat  down  by  her  side  and  took 
her  hand. 

*  Victoria,'  he  said  again.  There  was  in  his  voice 
a  rich  quality. 

'Oh,  Major  Cairns,  Major  Cairns,'  she  burst  out. 
And  clasping  his  hand  between  hers,  she  laid  her  face 
upon  it.  He  felt  all  her  body  throb ;  there  were  tears 
on  his  hands.  A  man  of  the  world,  he  very  gently 
lifted  up  her  chin  and  raised  her  to  a  sitting  posture. 

'There,'  he  said  softly,  still  retaining  her  hands, 
'don't  cry,  dear,  aU  is  well.  Don't  speak.  I  have 
found  you.' 

With  all  the  gentleness  of  a  heavy  man  he  softly 
stroked  her  hands. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Two  days  later  Victoria  was  floating  in  the  curious 
ether  of  the  unusual.  It  was  Sunday  night.  She 
was  before  a  little  table  at  one  of  those  concealed 
restaurants  in  Soho  where  blows  fragrant  the  wind  of 
France.  She  was  sitting  in  a  softly  cushioned  arm 
chair,  grateful  to  arms  and  back,  her  feet  propped  up 
on  a  footstool.  Before  her  lay  the  little  table,  with 
its  rough  cloth,  imperfectly  clean  and  shining  dully 
with  brittania  ware.  There  were  flowers  in  a  small 
mug  of  Bruges  pottery;  there  was  little  light  save 
from  candles  discreetly  veiled  by  pink  shades.  The 
bill  of  fare,  rigid  on  its  metal  stem,  bore  the  two 
shilling  table  d'hote  and  the  more  pretentious  h  la 
carte.  An  immense  feeling  of  restfulness,  so  complete 
as  to  be  positive  was  upon  her.  She  felt  luxurious 
and  at  large,  at  one  with  the  other  couples  who  sat 
near  by,  smiling,  with  possessive  hands. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  table  sat  Major  Cairns. 
He  had  not  altered  very  much  except  that  he  was 
stouter.  His  grey  eyes  still  shone  kindly  from  his 
rather  gross  face.  Victoria  could  not  make  up  her 
mind  whether  she  liked  him  or  not.  When  she  met 
him  in  the  park  he  had  seemed  beautiful  as  an  arch- 
angel ;  he  had  been  gentle  too  as  big  men  mostly  are 
to  women,  but  now  she  could  feel  him  examining  her 
critically,  noting  her  points,  speculating  on  the  change 
in  her,  wondering  whether  her  ravaged  beauty  was 
greater  and  her  neck  softer  than  when  he  last  held 
her  in  his  arms  off  the  coast  of  Araby. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  199 

Victoria  had  compacted  for  a  quiet  place.  She 
could  not,  she  felt,  face  the  Pall  Mall  or  Jermyn 
Street  restaurants,  their  lights,  wealth  of  silver  and 
glass,  their  soft  carpets,  their  silent  waiters.  The 
Major  had  agreed,  for  he  knew  women  well  and  was 
not  over-anxious  to  expose  to  the  eyes  of  the  town 
Victoria's  paltry  clothes.  Now  he  had  her  before  him 
he  began  to  regret  that  he  had  not  risked  it.  For 
Victoria  had  gained  as  much  as  she  had  lost  in  looks. 
Her  figure  had  shrunk,  but  her  neck  was  still  beauti- 
fully moulded,  broad  as  a  pillar ;  her  colour  had  gone 
down  almost  to  dead  white  ;  the  superfluous  flesh  had 
wasted  away  and  had  left  bare  the  splendid  line  of 
the  strong  chin  and  jaw.  Her  eyes,  however,  were 
the  magnet  that  held  Cairns  fast.  They  were  as  grey 
as  ever,  but  dilated  and  thrown  into  contrast  with  the 
pale  skin  by  the  purple  zone  which  surrounded  them. 
They  stared  before  them  with  a  novel  boldness,  a 
strange  lucidity. 

*  Victoria,'  whispered  Cairns  leaning  forward,  *  you 
are  very  beautiful.' 

Victoria  laughed  and  a  faint  flush  rose  into  her 
cheeks.  There  was  still  something  grateful  in  the 
admiration  of  this  man,  gross  and  limited  as  he  might 
be,  centred  round  his  pleasures,  sceptical  of  good  and 
evil  alike.  Without  a  word  she  took  up  a  spoon  and 
began  to  eat  her  ice.  Cairns  watched  every  move- 
ment of  her  hand  and  wrist. 

*  Don't,'  said  Victoria  after  a  pause.  She  dropped 
her  spoon  and  put  her  hands  under  the  table. 

*  Don't  what  ?  '  said  Cairns. 

*  Look  at  my  hands.  They're  ...  Oh,  they're  not 
what  they  were.     It  makes  me  feel  ashamed.' 

'Nonsense,'  said  Cairns  with  a  laugh.  'Your 
hands  are  still  as  fine  as  ever  and,  when  we've  had 
them  manicured.  .  ,  .' 

He  stopped  abruptly  as  if  he  had  said  too  much. 

'Manicm-ed  ? '  said  Victoria  warily,  though  the '  we ' 


200  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

had  given  lier  a  little  shock.  '  Oli,  they're  not  worth 
manicuring  now  for  the  sort  of  work  I've  got  to  do.' 

'  Look  here,  Victoria,'  said  Cairns  rather  roughly. 
'  This  can't  go  on.  You're  not  made  to  be  one  of  the 
drabs.  You  say  your  work  is  telling  on  you :  well, 
you  must  give  it  up.' 

'  Oh,  I  can't  do  that,'  said  Victoria,  '  I've  got  to 
earn  my  living  and  I'm  no  good  for  anything  else.' 

Cairns  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  and  meditatively 
sipped  his  port. 

'Drink  the  port,'  he  commanded,  'it'll  do  you 
good.' 

Victoria  obeyed  willingly  enough.  There  was 
already  in  her  blood  the  glow  of  Burgundy  ;  but  the 
port,  mellow,  exquisite,  and  curling  round  the  tongue, 
coloured  like  burnt  almonds,  fragrant  too,  concealed 
a  deeper  joy.  The  smoke  from  Cairns'  cigar,  half 
hiding  his  face,  floating  in  wreaths  between  them, 
entered  her  nostrils,  aromatic,  narcotic. 

*  What  are  you  thinking  of  doing  now? '  she  asked. 
'I  don't  know   quite,'  said   Cairns.     'You   see  I 

broke  my  good  resolution.  After  my  job  at  Perim, 
they  offered  me  some  surveying  work  near  Ormuz ; 
they  call  it  surveying,  but  it's  spying  really  or  it 
would  be  if  there  were  anything  to  spy.  I  took  it  and 
rather  enjoyed  it.' 

*  Did  you  have  any  adventures  ? '  asked  Victoria. 
'Nothing  to  speak  of  except  expeditions  into  the 

hinterland  trying  to  get  fi-esh  meat.  The  East  is 
overrated,  I  assure  you.  A  butr  landed  off  our 
station  once,  probably  intending  to  turn  us  into  able- 
bodied  slaves.  There  were  only  seven  of  us  to  their 
thirty  but  we  killed  ten  with  two  volleys  and  they 
made  off,  parting  with  their  anchor  in  their  hurry.' 

Cairns  looked  at  Victoria.  The  flusli  had  not  died 
from  her  cheeks.     She  was  good  to  look  upon. 

'  No,'  he  went  on  more  slowly,  '  I  don't  quite  know 
what  I  shaU   do.     I  meant  to  retire  anyhow,  you 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  401 

know,  and  the  sudden  death  of  my  uncle,  old 
Marmaduke  Cairns,  settled  it.  I  never  expected  to 
get  a  look  in,  but  there  was  hardly  anybody  else  to 
leave  anything  to,  except  his  sisters  whom  he  hated 
like  poison,  so  I'm  the  heir.  I  don't  yet  know  what 
I'm  worth  quite,  but  the  old  man  always  seemed  to  do 
himself  pretty  well.' 

'I'm  glad,'  said  Victoria.  She  was  not.  The 
monstrous  stupidity  of  a  system  which  suddenly 
places  a  man  in  a  position  enabling  him  to  live  on 
the  labour  of  a  thousand  was  obvious  to  her. 

'I'm  rather  at  a  loose  end,'  said  Cairns  musing, 
*  you  see  I've  had  enough  knocking  about.  But  it's 
rather  dull  here,  you  know.  I'm  not  a  marrying  man 
either.' 

Victoria  was  disturbed.  She  looked  at  Cairns  and 
met  his  eyes.  There  was  forming  in  them  a  question. 
As  she  looked  at  him  the  expression  faded  and  he 
signed  to  the  waiter  to  bring  the  coffee. 

As  they  sipped  it  they  spoke  little  but  inspected 
one  another  narrowly.  Victoria  told  herself  that  if 
Cairns  offered  her  marriage  she  would  accept  him. 
She  was  not  sure  that  ideal  happiness  would  be  hers 
if  she  did ;  his  limitations  were  more  apparent  to 
her  than  they  had  been  when  she  first  knew  him. 
Yet  the  alternative  was  the  P.R.R.  and  all  that  must 
follow. 

Cairns  was  turning  over  in  his  mind  the  question 
Victoria  had  surprised.  Though  he  was  by  no  means 
cautious  or  shy,  being  a  bold  and  good  liver,  he  felt 
that  Victoria's  present  position  made  it  difi&cult  to  be 
sentimental.  So  they  talked  of  indifferent  things. 
But  when  they  left  the  restaurant  and  drove  towards 
Finsbury  Victoria  came  closer  to  him ;  and,  uncon- 
sciously almost.  Cairns  took  her  hand,  which  she  did 
not  withdraw.  He  leant  towards  her.  His  hand 
grew  more  insistent  on  her  arm.  She  was  passive, 
though  her  heart  beat  and  fear  was  upon  her. 


309  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

'Victoria,'  said  Cairns,  his  voice  strained  and 
metallic. 

She  turned  her  face  towards  him.  There  was  in 
it  complete  acquiescence.  He  passed  one  arm  round 
her  waist  and  drew  her  towards  him.  She  could  feel 
his  chest  crush  her  as  he  bent  her  back.  His  lips 
fastened  on  her  neck  greedily. 

'  Victoria,'  said  Cairns  again,  '  I  want  you.  Come 
away  from  all  this  labour  and  pain ;  let  me  make 
you  happy.' 

She  looked  at  him,  a  question  in  her  eyes. 

*  As  free  man  and  woman,'  he  stammered.  Then 
more  firmly : 

'I'll  make  you  happy.  You'll  want  nothing. 
Perhaps  you'll  even  learn  to  like  me.* 

Victoria  said  nothing  for  a  minute.  The  proposal 
did  not  offend  her ;  she  was  too  broken,  too  stupefied 
for  her  inherent  prejudices  to  assert  themselves. 
Morals,  belief,  reputation,  what  figments  all  these 
things.  What  was  this  freedom  of  hers  that  she 
should  set  so  high  a  price  on  it?  And  here  was 
comfort,  wealth,  peace — oh,  peace.  Yet  she  hesitated 
to  plunge  into  the  cold  stream ;  she  stood  shivering 
on  the  edge. 

*  Let  me  think,'  she  said. 

Cairns  pressed  her  closer  to  him.  A  little  of  the 
flame  that  warmed  his  body  passed  into  hei*s. 

*  Don't  hurry  me.  Please.  I  don't  know  what  to 
say.  .  .  .' 

He  bent  over  with  hungry  lips. 

*  Yes,  you  may  kiss  me.' 

Submissive,  if  frightened  and  repelled,  yet  with  a 
heart  where  hope  fluttered,  she  surrendered  him 
her  lips. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

*  I  don't  approve  and  I  .don't  disapprove,*  snarled 
Farwell.  *  I'm  not  my  sister's  keeper.  I  don't 
pretend  to  think  it  noble  of  you  to  live  with  a  man 
you  don't  care  for,  but  I  don't  say  you're  wrong 
to  do  it.' 

'But  really,'  said  Victoria,  *if  you  don't  think 
it  right  to  do  a  thing,  you  must  think  it  wrong.' 

*Not  at  all.  I  am  neutral,  or  rather  my  reason 
supports  what  my  principles  reject.  Thus  my 
principles  may  seem  unreasonable  and  my  reasoning 
devoid  of  principle,  but  I  cannot  help  that.' 

Victoria  thought  for  a  moment.  She  was  about 
to  take  a  great  step  and  she  longed  for  approval. 

*Mr  Farwell,'  she  said  deliberately,  'I've  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  you  are  right.  We  are  crabs  in 
a  bucket  and  those  at  the  bottom  are  no  nobler  than 
those  on  the  top,  for  they  would  gladly  be  on  the 
top.     I'm  going  on  the  top.' 

'  Sophist,'  said  Farwell  smiling. 

*  I  don't  know  what  that  means,'  Victoria  went  on ; 
'  I  suppose  you  think  that  I'm  trying  to  cheat  myself 
as  to  what  is  right.  Possibly,  but  I  don't  profess  to 
know  what  is  right.' 

*  Oh,  no  more  do  I,'  interrupted  Farwell,  *  please 
don't  set  me  up  as  a  judge.  I  haven't  got  any  ethical 
standards  for  you.  I  don't  believe  there  are  any; 
the  ethics  of  the  Renaissance  are  not  those  of  the 
twentieth  century,  nor  are  those  of  London  the  same 
as  those  of  Constantinople.     Time  and  space  work 


a64  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

moral  revolutions ;  and,  even  on  stereotyped  lines, 
nobody  can  say  present  ethics  are  the  best.  From  a 
conventional  point  of  view  the  hundred  and  fifty 
years  that  separate  us  from  Fielding  mark  an 
improvement,  but  I  have  still  to  learn  that  the  morals 
of  to-day  compare  favourably  with  those  of  Sparta. 
You  must  decide  that  for  yourself.' 

'  I  am  doing  so,'  said  Victoria  quietly, '  but  I  don't 
think  you  quite  understand  a  woman's  position  and  I 
want  you  to.  I  find  a  world  where  the  harder  a 
woman  works,  the  worse  she  is  paid,  where  her  mind 
is  despised  and  her  body  courted.  Oh,  I  know,  you 
haven't  done  that,  but  you  don't  employ  women. 
Nobody  but  you  has  ever  cared  a  scrap  about  such 
brains  as  I  may  have ;  the  subs  courted  me  in  my 
husband's  regiment  .  .  .'  She  stopped  abruptly, 
having  spoken  too  freely. 

'  Go  on,'  said  Farwell  tactfully. 

*  And  in  London  what  have  I  found  ?  Nothing  but 
men  bent  on  one  pursuit.  They  have  followed  me  in 
the  streets  and  tubes,  tried  to  sit  by  me  in  the  parks. 
They  have  tried  to  touch  me — yes  me !  the  dependent 
who  could  not  resent  it,  when  I  served  them  with 
their  food.  Their  talk  is  the  inane,  under  which  they 
cloak  desire.  Their  words  are  covert  appeals.  I  hear 
round  me  the  everlasting  cry :  yield,  yield,  for  that 
is  all  we  want  from  young  women.' 

*  True,'  said  Farwell,  *  I  have  never  denied  this.' 

*  And  yet,'  answered  Victoria  angrily,  '  you  almost 
blame  me.  I  tell  you  that  I  have  never  seen  the 
world  as  I  do  now.  Men  have  no  use  for  us  save  as 
mistresses,  whether  legal  or  not.  Perhaps  they  will 
have  us  as  breeders  or  housekeepers,  but  the  mistress 
is  the  root  of  it  all.  And  if  they  can  gain  us  without 
pledges,  without  risks,  by  promises,  by  force  or  by 
deceit,  they  will.' 

Farwell  said  nothing.    His  eyes  were  full  of  sorrow. 
'My  husband   drank   himself  to   death,'   pureued 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  aos 

Victoria  in  low  tones.  *  The  proprietor  of  the  Rose- 
bud tried  to  force  me  to  become  his  toy  .  .  .  perhaps 
he  would  have  thrown  me  on  the  streets  if  he  had  had 
time  to  pursue  me  longer  and  if  I  refused  myself  still 
.  .  .  because  he  was  my  employer  and  all  is  fair  in 
what  they  call  love  .  .  .  The  customers  bought  every 
day  for  twopence  the  right  to  stare  through  my  open- 
work blouse,  to  touch  my  hand,  to  brush  my  knees 
with  theirs.  One,  who  seemed  above  them,  tried  to 
break  my  body  into  obedience  by  force  .  .  .  Here, 
at  the  P.R.R.  I  am  a  toy  still,  though  more  of  a  servant 
.  .  .  Soon  I  shall  be  a  cripple  and  good  neither  for 
servant  nor  mistress,  what  will  you  do  with  me  ?  ' 
Farwell  made  a  despairing  gesture  with  his  hand. 

*  I  tell  you,'  said  Victoria  with  ferocious  intensity. 
'You're  right,  life's  a  fight  and  I'm  going  to  win, 
for  my  eyes  are  clear.  I  have  done  with  sentiment 
and  sympathy.  A  man  may  command  respect  as  a 
wage  earner ;  a  woman  commands  nothing  but  what 
she  can  cheat  out  of  men's  senses.  She  must  be  rich, 
she  must  be  economically  independent.  Then  men 
will  crawl  where  they  hectored,  worship  that  which 
they  burned.  And  if  I  must  be  dependent  to  become 
independent,  that  is  a  stage  I  am  ready  for.' 

'  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  '  asked  Farwell. 

*  I'm  going  to  live  with  this  man,'  said  Victoria  in 
a  frozen  voice.  '  I  neither  love  nor  hate  him.  I  am 
going  to  exploit  him,  to  extort  fi'om  him  as  much 
of  the  joy  of  life  as  I  can,  but  above  all  I  am  going 
to  draw  from  him,  from  others  too  if  I  can,  as  much 
wealth  as  I  can.  I  will  store  it,  hive  it  bee-like,  and 
when  my  treasure  is  great  enough  I  will  consume  it. 
And  the  world  will  stand  by  and  shout:  hallelujah, 
a  rich  woman  cometh  into  her  kingdom.' 

Farwell  remained  silent  for  a  minute. 

'You  are  right,'  he  said,  'if  you  must  choose,  then 
be  strong  and  carve  your  way  into  freedom.  I  have 
not  done  this,  and  the  world  has  sucked  me  dry. 


2o6  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

You  can  still  be  free,  so  do  not  shrink  from  the  means. 
You  are  a  woman,  your  body  is  your  fortune,  your 
only  fortune,  so  transmute  it  into  gold.  You  will 
succeed,  you  will  be  rich ;  and  the  swine,  instead  of 
trampling  on  you,  will  herd  round  the  trough  where 
you  scatter  pearls.' 

He  stopped  for  a  moment,  slowly  puffing  at  his 
pipe. 

'Women's  profession,'  he  muttered.  'The  time 
will  come  .  .  .  but  to-day.  .  .  .* 

Victoria  looked  at  him,  a  faint  figure  in  the  night, 
He  was  the  spectral  prophet,  a  David  in  fear  of 
Goliath. 

*  Yes,'  she  said,  *  woman's  profession.' 

Together  they  walked  away.  Farwell  was  almost 
soliloquising.  *If  she  is  brave,  life  is  easier  for  a 
woman  than  a  man.  She  can  play  on  him ;  but  her 
head  must  be  cool,  her  heart  silent.  Hear  this, 
Victoria.  Remember  yours  is  a  trade  and  needs 
your  application.  To  win  this  fight  you  must  be  well 
equipped.  Let  your  touch  be  soft  as  velvet,  your 
grip  as  hard  as  steel.  Shrink  from  nothing,  rise  to 
treachery,  let  the  worldly  nadir  be  your  zenith.' 

He  stopped  before  a  public  house  and  opened  the 
door  of  the  bar  a  little. 

*  Look  in  here,'  he  said. 

Victoria  looked.  There  were  five  men,  half  hidden 
in  smoke ;  among  them  sat  one  woman  clad  in  vivid 
colours,  her  face  painted,  her  hands  dirty  and  covered 
with  rings.  Her  yellow  hair  made  a  vivid  patch 
against  the  brown  wall.  A  yard  away,  alone  at  a 
small  table,  sat  another  woman,  covered  too  with 
cheap  finery,  with  weary  eyes  and  a  smiling  mouth, 
her  figure  abandoned  on  a  sofa,  lost  to  the  scene,  her 
look  fixed  on  the  side  door  through  which  men  slink  in. 

*  Remember,'  said  Farwell,  '  give  no  quarter  in  the 
struggle,  for  you  will  get  none.' 

Victoria  shuddered.     But  the  fury  was  upon  her. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  207 

*  Don't  be  afraid,'  she  hissed,  *  I'll  spare  nobody. 
They've  already  given  me  a  taste  of  the  whip.  I 
know,  I  understand ;  those  girls  don't.  I  see  the 
goal  before  me  and  therefore  I  will  reach  it.' 

Farwell  looked  at  her  again,  his  eyes  full  of 
melancholy. 

*  Go  then,  Victoria,'  he  said,  '  and  work  out  your 
fate.' 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  I 

Victoria  turned  uneasily  on  the  sofa  and  stretclied 
her  arms.  She  yawned,  then  sat  up  abruptly. 
Sudermann's  Katzensteg  fell  to  the  ground  off  her  lap. 
She  was  in  a  tiny  back  room,  so  overcrowded  by  the 
Bofa  and  easy-chair  that  she  could  almost  touch  a 
small  rosewood  bureau  opposite.  She  looked  round 
the  room  lazily,  then  relapsed  on  the  sofa,  hugging 
a  cushion.  She  snuggled  her  face  into  it,  voluptuously 
breathing  in  its  compactness  laden  with  scent  and 
tobacco  smoke.  Then,  looking  up,  she  reflected  that 
she  was  very  comfortable. 

Victoria's  boudoir  was  the  back  extension  of  the 
dining-room.  Shut  off  by  the  folding  doors,  it  con- 
tained within  its  tiny  space  the  comfort  which  is  only 
found  in  small  rooms.  It  was  papered  red  with  a 
flowered  pattern,  which  she  thought  ugly,  but  which 
had  just  been  imported  from  France  and  was  quite 
the  thing.  The  sofa  and  easy-chair  were  covered 
with  obtrusively  new  red  and  white  chintz ;  a  little 
pile  of  cushions  had  fallen  on  the  indeterminate 
Persian  pattern  of  the  carpet.  Long  coffee  coloured 
curtains,  banded  with  chintz,  shut  out  part  of  the 
high  window,  through  which  a  little  of  the  garden 
and  the  bare  branches  of  a  tree  could  be  seen. 
Victoria  took  all  this  in  for  the  hundredth  time.  She 
had  been  sleeping  for  an  hour;  she  felt  smooth, 
stroked ;  she  could  have  hugged  all  these  pretty 
things,  the  little  brass  fender,  the  books,  the  Delft 
inkpot  on  the  little  bureau.     Everything  in  the  room 

•08 


A  BED  OF  ROSfiJs  20^ 

was  already  intimate.  Her  eyes  dwelt  on  the  clean 
chintzes,  on  the  half  blinds  surmounted  by  insertion, 
the  brass  ashtrays,  the  massive  silver  cigarette  box. 

Victoria  stood  up,  the  movement  changing  the 
direction  of  her  contemplative  mood.  The  Gothic 
rosewood  clock  told  her  it  was  a  little  after  three. 
She  went  to  the  cigarette  box  and  lit  a  cigarette. 
While  slowly  inhaling  the  smoke,  she  rang  the  bell. 
On  her  right  forefinger  there  was  a  faint  yellow  tinge 
of  nicotine  which  had  reached  the  nail, 

'I  shall  have  to  be  manicured  again,'  she  solilo- 
quised. *  What  a  nuisance.  Better  have  it  done 
to-day  while  I  get  my  hair  done  too.' 

'  Yes,  mum.'  A  neat  dark  maid  stood  at  the  door. 
Victoria  did  not  answer  for  a  second.  The  girl's 
black  dress  was  perfectly  brushed,  her  cap,  collar, 
cuffs,  apron,  immaculate  white. 

*  I'm  going  out  now,  Mary,'  said  Victoria.  '  You'd 
better  get  my  brown  velvet  out.' 

'Yes,  mum,'  said  the  maid.  'Will  you  be  back 
for  dinner,  mum  ?  ' 

'  No,  I'm  dining  with  the  Major.  Oh,  don't  get 
the  velvet  out.     It's  muddy  out,  isn't  it  ?  ' 

*Yes,  mum.  It's  been  raining  in  the  morning, 
mum.' 

*  Ah,  well,  perhaps  I'd  better  wear  the  grey  coat 
and  skirt.     And  my  furs  and  toque.' 

*  The  beaver,  mum  ?  ' 

*No,  of  course  not,  the  white  fox.  And,  oh,  Mary, 
I've  lost  my  little  bag  somewhere.  And  tell  Charlotte 
to  send  me  up  a  cup  of  tea  at  half-past  three.' 

Mary  left  the  room  silently.  She  seldom  asked 
questions,  and  never  expressed  pleasure,  displeasure 
or  surprise. 

Victoria  walked  up  to  her  bedroom ;  the  staircase 

was  papered  with  a  pretty  blue  and  white  pattern  over 

a  dado  of  white  lincrusta.     A  few  French  engravings 

stood  out  in  their  old  gold  frames.     Victoria  stopped 

0 


310  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

at  the  first  landing  to  look  at  iter  favourite,  after 
Lancret ;  it  represented  lovers  surprised  in  a  barn  by 
an  irate  husband. 

The  bedroom  occupied  the  entire  first  floor.  On 
taking  possession  of  the  little  house  she  had  realised 
that,  as  she  would  have  no  callers,  a  drawing-room 
would  be  absurd,  so  had  suppressed  the  folding  doors 
and  made  the  two  rooms  into  one  large  one.  In  the 
front,  between  the  two  windows,  stood  her  dressing- 
table,  now  covered  with  small  bottles,  some  in  cut 
glass  and  full  of  scent,  others  more  workmanlike, 
marked  vaseline,  glycerine,  skin  food,  bay  rum. 
Scattered  about  them  on  the  lace  toilet  cover,  were 
boxes  of  powder,  white,  sepia,  bluish,  puffs,  little 
sticks  of  cosmetics,  some  silver-backed  brushes,  some 
squat  and  short-bristled,  others  with  long  handles, 
with  long  soft  bristles,  one  studded  with  short  wires, 
another  with  whalebone,  some  clothes  brushes  too, 
buttonhooks,  silver  trays,  a  handglass  with  a  massive 
silver  handle.  Right  and  left,  two  little  electric  lamps 
and  above  the  swinging  mirror,  a  shaded  bulb  shed- 
ing  a  candid  glow. 

One  wall  was  blotted  out  by  two  inlaid  mahogany 
wardrobes ;  thi'ough  the  open  doors  of  one  could  be 
seen  a  pile  of  frilled  linen,  lace  petticoats,  chemises 
threaded  with  coloured  ribbons.  On  the  large  arm- 
chair, covered  with  blue  and  white  chintz,  was  a 
crumpled  heap  of  white  linen,  a  pair  of  <^af6  au  lait 
silk  stockings.  A  light  mahogany  chair  or  two  stood 
about  the  room.  Each  had  a  blue  and  white  cushion. 
A  large  wash-stand  stood  near  the  mantlepiece,  laden 
with  blue  and  white  ware.  The  walls  were  covered 
with  blue  silky  paper,  dotted  here  and  there  with 
some  colour  prints.  These  were  mostly  English; 
their  nude  beauties  sprawled  and  languished  slyly 
among  bushes,  listening  to  the  pipes  of  Pan. 

Victoria  went  into  the  back  of  the  room,  and,  un- 
hooking her  cream  silk  dressing  jacket,  threw  it  on 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  an 

the  bed.  This  was  a  vast  low  edifice  of  glittering 
brown  wood,  covered  now  by  a  blue  and  white  silk 
bedspread  with  edges  smothered  in  lace ;  from  the 
head  of  the  bed  peeped  out  the  tips  of  two  lace  pillows. 
By  the  side  of  the  bed,  on  the  little  night  table,  stood 
two  or  three  books,  a  reading  lamp  and  a  small  silver 
basket  full  of  sweets.  An  ivory  bell-pull  hung  by  the 
side  of  a  swinging  switch  just  between  the  pillows. 

Victoria  walked  past  the  bed  and  looked  at  herself 
in  the  high  looking-glass  set  into  the  wall  which  rose 
fi'om  the  floor  to  well  above  her  head.  The  mirror 
threw  back  a  pleasing  reflection.  It  showed  her  a 
woman  of  twenty-six,  neither  short  nor  tall,  dressed 
in  a  white  petticoat  and  mauve  silk  corsets.  The 
corsets  fitted  well  into  the  figure  which  was  round  and 
inclined  to  be  full.  Her  arms  and  neck,  framed  with 
white  frillings,  were  uniformly  cream  coloured, 
shadowed  a  little  darker  at  the  elbows,  near  the 
rounded  shoulders  and  under  the  jaw ;  all  her  skin 
had  a  glow,  half  vigorous,  half  delicate.  But  the 
woman's  face  interested  Victoria  more.  Her  hair  was 
piled  high  and  black  over  a  broad  low  white  forehead  ; 
the  cream  of  the  skin  turned  faintly  into  colour  at  the 
cheeks,  into  crimson  at  the  lips  ;  her  eyes  were  large, 
steel  grey,  long  lashed  and  thrown  into  relief  by  a 
faintly  mauve  aura.  There  was  strength  in  the  jaw, 
square,  hard,  fine  cut ;  there  was  strength  too  in  the 
steadiness  of  the  eyes,  in  the  slightly  compressed  red 
lips. 

'Yes,'  said  Victoria  to  the  picture,  'you  mean 
business.'  She  reflected  that  she  was  fatter  than  she 
had  ever  been.  Two  months  of  rest  had  worked  a 
revolution  in  her.  The  sudden  change  from  toil  to 
idleness  had  caused  a  reaction.  There  was  something 
almost  matronly  about  the  soft  curves  of  her  breast. 
But  the  change  was  to  the  good.  She  was  less 
interesting  than  the  day  when  the  Major  sat  face 
to  face  with  her  in  Soho,  his  pulse  beating  quicker 


311  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

and  quicker  as  her  ravished  beauty  stimulated  liiin 
by  its  novelty ;  but  she  was  a  finer  animal.  Indeed 
she  realised  to  the  full  that  she  had  never  been  so 
beautiful,  that  she  had  never  been  beautiful  before, 
as  men  understand  beauty. 

The  past  two  months  had  been  busy  as  well  as  idle, 
busy  that  is  as  an  idle  woman's  time.  She  had  felt 
weary  now  and  then,  like  those  unfortunates  who  are 
bound  to  the  wheel  of  pleasure  and  are  compelled  to 
*do  too  much.'  Major  Cairns  had  launched  out  into 
his  first  experiment  in  pseudo-married  life  with  an 
almost  boyish  zest.  It  was  he  who  had  practically 
compeRed  her  to  take  the  little  house  in  Elm  Tree 
Place. 

*  Think  of  it,  Vic,'  he  had  said,  *  your  own  little 
den.  With  no  prying  neighbours.  And  your  own 
little  garden.    And  dogs.' 

He  had  waxed  quite  sentimental  over  it  and 
Victoria  full  of  the  gratitude  that  makes  a  woman 
cling  to  the  fireman  when  he  has  rescued  her,  had 
helped  him  to  build  a  home  for  the  idyll.  Within  a 
feverish  month  he  had  produced  the  house  as  it  stood. 
He  had  hardly  allowed  Victoria  any  choice  in  the 
matter,  for  he  would  not  let  her  do  anything.  He 
practically  compelled  her  to  keep  to  her  suite  at  the 
hotel,  so  that  she  might  get  well.  He  struggled  alone 
with  the  decoration,  plumbing,  furniture  and  linoleum, 
linen  and  garden.  Now  and  then  he  would  ring  up 
to  know  whether  she  preferred  salmon  pink  to  f raise 
ecrasie  cushions,  or  he  would  come  up  to  the  hotel 
rent  in  twain  by  conflicting  rugs.  At  last  he  had 
pronounced  the  house  ready,  and,  after  supplying  it 
with  Mary  and  Charlotte,  had  triumphantly  installed 
his  new  queen  in  her  palace. 

Victoria's  first  revelation  was  one  of  immense  joy ; 
unquestioning,  and  for  one  moment  quite  dis- 
interested. It  was  not  until  a  few  hours  had  elapsed 
that  she  regained  mastery  over  herself.     She  went 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  213 

from  room  to  room  puncliing  cusliions,  pressing  her 
hands  over  the  polished  wood,  at  times  feeling 
voluptuously  on  hands  and  knees  the  pile  of  the 
carpets.  She  almost  loved  Cairns  at  the  moment. 
It  was  quite  honestly  that  she  drew  him  down  by 
her  side  on  the  red  and  white  sofa  and  softly  kissed 
his  cheek  and  drove  his  ragged  moustache  into  re- 
bellion. It  was  quite  willingly  too  that  she  felt  his 
grasp  tighten  on  her  and  that  she  yielded  to  him. 
Her  lips  did  not  abhor  his  kisses. 

Some  hours  later  she  became  herself  again.  Cairns 
was  good  to  her,  but  good  as  the  grazier  is  to  the 
heifer  from  whom  he  hopes  to  breed ;  she  was  his 
creature,  and  must  be  well  housed,  well  fed,  well 
clothed,  so  that  his  eyes  might  feast  on  her,  scented 
so  that  his  desire  for  her  might  be  whipped  into 
action.  In  her  moments  of  cold  horror  in  the  past 
she  had  realised  herself  as  a  commodity,  as  a  beast 
of  burden ;  now  she  realised  herself  as  a  beast  of 
pleasure.  The  only  thing  to  remember  then  was  to 
coin  into  gold  her  condescension. 

Victoria  looked  at  herself  again  in  the  glass.  Yes, 
it  was  condescension.  As  a  free  woman,  that  is,  a 
woman  of  means,  she  would  never  have  surrendered 
to  Cairns  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  Off  the  coast  of 
Araby  she  had  yielded  to  him  a  little,  so  badly  did 
she  need  human  sympathy,  a  little  warmth  in  the 
cold  of  the  lonely  night.  When  he  appeared  again  as 
the  rescuer  she  had  flung  herself  into  his  arms  with  an 
appalling  fetterless  joy.  She  had  plunged  her  life 
into  his  as  into  Nirvana. 

Now  her  head  was  cooler.  Indeed  it  had  been 
cool  for  a  month.  She  saw  Cairns  as  an  average- 
man,  neither  good  nor  evil,  a  son  of  his  father  and 
the  seed  thereof,  bound  by  a  strict  code  of  honour 
and  a  lax  code  of  morals.  She  saw  him  as  a  dull 
man  with  the  superficial  polish  that  even  the  roughest 
pebble  acquires  in  the  stream  of  life.    He  had  found 


214  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

her  at  low  water  mark,  stranded  and  gasping  on  the 
sands ;  lie  had  picked  her  up  and  imprisoned  her 
in  this  vivarium  to  which  he  alone  had  access,  where 
he  could  enjoy  his  capture  to  the  full, 

*  And  the  capture's  business  is  to  get  as  much  out 
of  the  captor  as  possible,  so  as  to  buy  its  freedom 
back.'  This  was  Victoria's  new  philosophy.  She 
had  dexterously  induced  Cairns  to  give  her  a  thousand 
a  year.  She  knew  perfectly  well  that  she  could  live 
on  seven  hundred,  perhaps  on  six.  Besides,  she 
played  on  his  pride.  Cairns  was  after  all  only  a 
big  middle-aged  boy ;  it  made  him  swell  to  accom- 
pany Victoria  to  Sloane  Street  to  buy  a  hat,  to  the 
Leicester  Gallery  to  see  the  latest  one-man  show. 
She  was  a  credit  to  a  fellow.  Thus  she  found  no 
difficulty  in  making  him  buy  her  sables,  gold  purses. 
Whistler  etchings.  They  would  come  in  handy,  she 
reflected,  *  when  the  big  bust-up  came.'  For  Victoria 
was  not  rocking  herself  in  the  transitory,  but  from 
the  very  first  making  ready  for  the  storm  which 
follows  on  the  longest  stretch  of  fair  weather. 

'  Yes,'  said  Victoria  again  to  the  mirror,  *  you  mean 
business.'  The  door  opened  and  almost  noiselessly 
closed.  Mary  brought  in  a  tray  covered  with  a  clean 
set  of  silver-backed  brushes,  and  piled  up  the  other 
ready  to  take  away.  She  put  a  water  can  on  the 
washstand  and  parsimoniously  measured  into  it  some 
attar  of  roses.  Victoria  stepped  out  into  the  middle 
of  the  room  and  stood  there  braced  and  stiff  as  the 
maid  unlaced  and  then  tightened  her  stays. 

*  What  will  you  wear  this  evening,  mum  ? '  asked 
Mary,  as  Victoria  sat  down  in  the  low  dressing  chair 
opposite  the  swinging  glass. 

'  This  evening  ? '  mused  Victoria.  *  Let  me  see, 
there's  the  grns  perle.' 

'No,  mum,  I've  sent  it  to  the  cleaner's,'  said  Mary. 
Her  fingers  were  deftly  removing  the  sham  curls  from 
Victoria's  back  hair. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  215 

'You've  worn  it  four  times,  mum,'  she  added 
reproachfully. 

'Oh,  have  I?  I  don't  think.  ...  oh,  that's  all 
right,  Mary.' 

Victoria  reflected  that  she  would  never  have  a 
well-trained  maid  if  she  finished  sentences  such  as 
this.  Four  times  !  Well,  she  must  give  the  Major 
his  money's  worth. 

'You  might  wear  your  red  Directoire,  mum,' 
suggested  Mary  in  the  unemotional  tones  of  one  who 
is  paid  not  to  hear  slips. 

'  I  might.  Yes.  Perhaps  it's  a  little  loud  for  the 
Carlton.' 

'  Yes,  mum,'  said  Mary  without  committing  herself. 

'  After  all,  I  don't  think  it  is  so  loud.' 

'  No,  mum,'  said  Mary  in  even  tones.  She  deftly 
rolled  her  mistress'  plaits  round  the  crown. 

Victoria  felt  vaguely  annoyed.  The  woman's 
words  were  anonymous. 

'  But  what  do  you  think,  Mary  ? '  she  asked. 

'  Oh,  I  think  you're  quite  right,  mum,'  said  Mary. 

Victoria  watched  her  face  in  the  glass.  Not  a  wave 
of  opinion  rippled  over  it. 

Victoria  got  up.  She  stretched  out  her  arms  for 
Mary  to  slip  the  skirt  over  her  head.  The  maid 
closed  the  lace  blouse,  quickly  clipped  the  fasteners 
together,  then  closed  the  placket  hole  completely. 
Without  a  word  she  fetched  the  light  grey  coat, 
slipped  it  on  Victoria's  shoulders.  She  found  the 
grey  skin  bag,  while  Victoria  put  on  her  white  fox 
toque.  She  then  encased  Victoria's  head  in  a  grey 
silk  veil  and  sprayed  her  with  scent.  Victoria  looked 
at  herself  in  the  glass.  She  was  very  lovely,  she 
thought. 

'  Auything  else,  mum  ?  '  said  Mary's  quiet  voice. 

'  No,  Mary,  nothing  else.' 

*  Thank  you,  mum.' 

As  Victoria  turned,  she  found  the  maid  had  dis- 


2i6  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

appeared,  but  her  watchful  presence  was  by  the  front 
door  to  open  it  for  her.  Victoria  saw  her  from  the 
stairs,  a  short  erect  figure,  with  a  pale  face  framed  in 
dark  hair.  She  stood  with  one  hand  on  the  latch^ 
the  other  holding  a  cab  whistle ;  her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  ground.  As  Victoria  passed  out  she  looked 
at  Mary.  The  girl's  eyes  were  averted  still,  her  face 
without  a  question.  Upon  her  left  hand  she  wore  a 
thin  gold  ring  with  a  single  red  stone.  The  ring 
fastened  on  Victoria's  imagination  as  she  stepped  into 
a  hansom  which  was  loafing  near  the  door.  It  was 
not  the  custom,  she  knew,  for  a  maid  to  wear  a  ring ; 
and  this  alone  was  enough  to  amaze  her.  Was  it 
possible  that  Mary's  armour  was  not  perfect  in  every 
point  of  servility  ?  No  doubt  she  had  just  put  it  on 
as  it  was  her  evening  out  and  she  would  be  leaving 
the  house  in  another  half  hour.  And  then  ?  Would 
another  and  a  stronger  hand  take  hers,  hold  it,  twine 
its  fingers  among  her  fingers.  Victoria  wondered, 
for  the  vision  of  love  and  Mary  were  incongruous 
ideas.  It  was  almost  inconceivable  that  with  her  cap 
and  apron  she  doffed  the  mantle  of  her  reserve  ;  she 
surely  could  not  vibrate ;  her  heart  could  not  beat 
in  unison  with  another.  Yet,  there  was  the  ring,  the 
promise  of  passion.  Victoria  nursed  for  a  moment 
the  vision  of  the  two  spectral  figures,  walking  in  a 
dusky  park,  arms  round  waists,  then  of  shapes  blended 
on  a  seat,  faces  hidden,  lip  to  lip. 

Victoria  threw  herself  back  in  the  cab.  What  did 
it  all  matter  after  all  ?  Mary  was  the  beast  of  burden 
which  she  had  captured  by  piracy.  She  had  been  her 
equal  once  when  abiding  by  the  law  ;  she  had  shared 
her  toil  and  her  slender  meed  of  thanks.  Now  she 
was  a  buccaneer,  outside  the  social  code,  and  as  such 
earned  the  right  to  command.  So  much  did  Victoria 
dominate  that  she  thought  she  would  refrain  from  the 
exercise  of  a  bourgeois  prerogative  :  the  girl  should 
wear  her  ring,  even  though  custom  forbade  it,  load 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  ai7 

herself  with  trinkets  if  she  chose,  for  as  a  worker  and 
a  respecter  of  social  laws  siirely  she  might  well  be 
treated  as  the  sacrificial  ox. 

The  horse  trotted  down  Baker  Street,  then  through 
Wigmore  Street.  Daylight  was  already  waning ;  here 
and  there  houses  were  breaking  into  light  between 
the  shops,  some  of  which  had  remembered  it  was 
Christmas  eve  and  decked  themselves  out  in  holly. 
At  the  comer  near  the  Bechstein  Hall  the  cab  came 
to  a  stop  behind  the  long  line  of  carriages  waiting 
for  the  end  of  a  concert.  Victoria  had  time  to  see 
the  old  crossing  sweeper,  with  a  smile  on  his  face  and 
mistletoe  in  his  battered  billy-cock.  The  festivities 
would  no  doubt  yield  him  his  annual  kind  word  from 
the  world.  She  passed  the  carriages,  all  empty  still. 
The  cushions  were  rich,  she  could  see.  Here  and 
there  she  could  see  a  fur  coat  or  a  book  on  the  seat ; 
in  one  of  them  sat  an  elderly  maid,  watching  the 
carriage  clock  under  the  electric  light,  meanwhile 
nursing  a  chocolate  pom  who  growled  as  Victoria  passed. 

*  Slaves  all  of  them,'  thought  Victoria.  *  A  slave 
the  good  elderly  maid,  thankful  for  the  crumbs  that 
fall  from  the  pom's  table.  Slaves  too,  the  fat  coach- 
man, the  slim  footman  despite  their  handsome  English 
faces,  lit  up  by  a  gas  lamp.  The  raw  material  of 
fashion.' 

The  cab  turned  into  the  greater  blaze  of  Oxford 
Circus,  past  the  Princes  Street  P.R.R.  There  was 
a  great  show  of  Christmas  cakes  there.  From  the 
cab  Victoria,  craning  out,  could  see  a  young  and 
pretty  girl  behind  the  counter  busily  packing  frosted 
biscuits.  Victoria  felt  warmed  by  the  sight ;  she  was 
not  malicious,  but  the  contrast  told  her  of  her  emanci- 
pation from  the  thrall  of  eight  bob  a  week.  Through 
Regent  Street,  all  congested  with  traffic,  little  figures 
laden  with  parcels  darting  like  frightened  ants  under 
the  horse's  nose,  then  into  the  immensity  of  Whitehall, 
the  cab  stopped  at  the  Stores  in  Victoria  Street. 


21 8  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Victoria  had  but  recently  joined.  A  store  ticket 
and  a  telephone  are  the  next  best  thing  to  respectability 
and  the  same  thing  as  regards  comfort.  They  go  far 
to  establish  one's  social  position.  Victoria  struggled 
through  the  wedged  crowd.  Here  and  there  boys  and 
girls  with  flushed  faces,  who  enjoyed  being  squashed. 
She  could  see  crowds  of  jolly  women  picking  from  the 
counters  things  useful  and  things  pretty ;  upon  signal 
discoveries  loudly  proclaimed  followed  continual 
exclamations  that  they  would  not  do.  Family  parties, 
excited  and  talkative,  left  her  unmoved.  That  world, 
that  of  the  rich  and  the  free,  would  ultimately  be 
hers ;  her  past,  that  of  the  worn  men  and  women 
ministering  behind  the  counter  to  the  whims  of  her 
future  world,  was  dead. 

She  only  had  to  buy  a  few  Christmas  presents. 
There  was  one  for  Betty,  one  for  Cairns,  and  two  for 
the  servants.  In  the  clothing  department  she  selected 
a  pretty  blue  merino  dressing-gown  and  a  long 
purple  sweater  for  Betty.  The  measurements  were 
much  the  same  as  hers,  if  a  little  slighter;  besides 
such  garments  need  not  fit.  She  went  downstairs 
and  disposed  of  the  Major  by  means  of  a  small  gold 
cigarette  case  with  a  leather  cover.  No  doubt  he  had 
a  dozen,  but  what  could  she  give  a  man  ? 

The  Stores  buzzed  round  her  like  a  parliament  of 
bees.  Now  and  then  people  shouldered  past  her,  a 
woman  trod  on  her  foot  and  neglected  to  apologise ; 
parcels  too,  inconveniently  carried,  struck  her  as  she 
passed.  She  felt  the  joy  of  the  lost ;  for  none  looked 
at  her,  save  now  and  then  a  man  drowned  in  the  sea 
of  women.  The  atmosphere  was  stuffy,  however,  and 
time  was  precious  as  she  had  put  off  buying  presents 
until  so  late.  Followed  by  a  porter  with  her  parcels 
she  left  the  Stores,  experiencing  the  pleasure  of  credit 
on  an  overdrawn  deposit  order  account.  The  man 
piled  the  goods  in  a  cab,  and  in  a  few  minutes  she 
had  transferred  Betty's  presents  to  a  carrier's  office, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  319 

with  instructions  to  send  them  off  at  eight  o'clock  by 
a  messenger  who  was  to  wait  at  the  door  until  the 
addressee  returned.  This  was  not  unnecessary  fore- 
sight, for  Betty  would  not  be  back  until  nine.  With 
the  Major's  cigarette  case  in  her  white  muff,  Victoria 
then  drove  to  Bond  Street,  there  to  snatch  a  cup  of 
tea.  On  the  way  she  stopped  the  cab  to  buy  a  lace 
blouse  for  Mary  and  an  umbrella  for  Charlotte,  having 
forgotten  them  in  her  hurry.  She  decided  to  have 
tea  at  Miss  Fortesque's,  for  Miss  Fortesque's  is  one  of 
those  tearooms  where  ladies  serve  ladies,  and  the 
newest  fashions  come.  It  is  the  right  place  to  be 
seen  in  at  five  o'clock.  At  the  door  a  small  boy  in  an 
Eton  jacket  and  collar  solemnly  salutes  with  a  shiny 
topper.  Inside,  the  English  character  of  the  room  is 
emphasized.  There  are  no  bamboo  tables,  no  skimpy 
French  chairs  or  Japanese  umbrellas ;  everything  is 
severely  plain  and  impeccably  clean.  The  wood 
shines,  the  table  linen  is  hard  and  glossy,  the  glass  is 
hand  cut  and  heavy,  the  plate  quite  plain  and 
obviously  dear.  On  the  wliite  distempered  walls  are 
colour  prints  after  Reynolds,  Romney,  Gainsborough. 
All  conspires  with  the  thick  carpet  to  promote  silence, 
even  the  china  and  glass,  which  seem  no  more  to  dare 
to  rattle  than  if  they  were  used  in  a  men's  club. 

Victoria  settled  down  in  a  large  chintz-covered  arm 
chair  and  ordered  tea  from  a  good-looking  girl  in  a 
dark  gi-ey  blouse  and  dress.  Visibly  a  hockey  skirt 
had  not  long  ago  been  more  natural  to  her.  As  she 
returned  Victoria  observed  the  slim  straight  lines  of 
her  undeveloped  figure.  She  was  half  graceful,  half 
gawky,  like  most  young  English  girls. 

'  It's  been  very  cold  to-day,  hasn't  it  ? '  said  the 
girl  as  she  set  down  bread  and  butter,  then  cake  and 
jam  sandwiches. 

'  Very,'  Victoria  looked  at  her  narrowly.  *  I  suppose 
it  doesn't  matter  much  in  here,  though.' 

'Oh,  no,  we   don't  notice  it.'     The  girl  looked 


330  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

weary  for  a  second.  Then  she  smiled  at  Victoria  and 
walked  away  to  a  corner  where  she  stood  listlessly. 

*  Slave,  slave.'  The  words  rang  through  Victoria's 
head.  *  You  talk  to  me  when  you're  sick  of  the  sight 
of  me.  You  talk  of  things  you  don't  care  about. 
You  smile  if  you  feel  your  face  shows  you  are  tired, 
in  the  hope  I'll  tip  you  silver  instead  of  copper.' 

Victoria  looked  round  the  room.  It  was  fairly  full, 
and  as  Fortesquean  as  it  was  British.  The  Fortesque 
tradition  is  less  fluid  than  the  constitution  of  the 
Empire.  Its  tables  shout '  we  are  old  wood ' ;  its  cups 
say  *  we  are  real  porcelain ' ;  and  its  customers  look  at 
one  another  and  say  '  who  the  devil  are  you  ? ' 
Nobody  thinks  of  having  tea  there  unless  they  have 
between  one  and  three  thousand  a  year.  It  is  too 
quiet  for  ten  thousand  a  year  or  for  three  poimds  a 
week ;  it  caters  for  ladies  and  gentlemen  and  freezes 
out  everybody  else,  regardless  of  turnover.  Thus  its 
congregation  (for  its  afternoon  rite  is  abnost  hieratical) 
invariably  includes  a  retired  colonel,  a  dowager  with 
a  daughter  about  to  come  out,  several  squiresses  who 
came  to  Miss  Fortesque's  as  little  girls  and  are 
handing  on  the  torch  to  their  own.  There  is  a 
sprinkling  of  women  who  have  been  shopping  in 
Bond  Street,  buying  things  good  but  not  showy.  As 
the  customers,  or  rather  clients,  lapse  with  a  sigh  into 
the  comfortable  armchairs  they  look  round  with  the 
covert  elegance  that  says :  *  And  who  the  devil  are 
you  ? ' 

Victoria  was  in  her  element.  She  had  had  tea  at 
Miss  Fortesque's  some  dozen  years  before  when  up 
for  the  week  from  Lympton ;  thus  she  felt  she  had 
the  freedom  of  the  house.  She  sipped  her  tea  and 
dropped  crumbs  with  unconcern.  She  looked  at  the 
dowager  without  curiosity.  The  dowager  speculated 
as  to  the  maker  of  her  coat  and  skirt.  Victoria's 
eyes  fixed  again  on  the  girl  who  was  passing  her  with 
a   laden  tray^.      The  effort   was    bringing    out  the 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  m 

beautiful  lines  of  the  slender  arms,  drooping 
shoulders,  round  bust.  Her  fair  hair  clustered  low 
over  the  creamy  nape. 

*  Slave,  slave,'  thought  Victoria  again.  *  What  are 
you  doing,  you  fool  ?  Roughening  your  hands,  losing 
flesh,  growing  old.  And  there's  nothing  for  a  girl  to 
do  but  serve  on,  serve,  always  serve.  Until  you  get 
too  old.  And  then,  scrapped.  Or  you  marry  .  .  . 
anything  that  comes  along.  Good  luck  to  you, 
paragon,  on  your  eight  bob  a  week.' 

Victoria  went  downstairs  and  got  into  the  cab 
which  had  been  waiting  for  her  with  the  servants' 
presents.  It  was  no  longer  cold,  but  foggy  and  warm. 
She  undid  her  white  fox  stole,  dropping  on  the  seat 
her  crocodile  skin  bag,  whence  escaped  a  swollen 
purse  of  gold  mesh. 

Upstairs  the  girl  cleared  away.  Under  the  butter- 
smeared  plate  which  slipped  through  her  fingers  she 
found  half-a-crown.     Her  heart  bounded  with  joy. 


CHAPTER  n 

*  Tom,  you  know  how  I  hate  toumedosl  said  Victoria 
petulantly. 

'  Sorry,  old  giii.'  Cairns  turned  and  motioned  to 
the  waiter.  While  he  was  exchanging  murmurs  with 
the  man  Victoria  observed  him.  Cairns  was  not 
bad  looking,  redder  and  stouter  than  ever.  He  was 
turning  into  the  '  jolly  old  Major '  type,  short,  broad, 
strangled  in  cross  barred  cravats  and  tight  frockcoats. 
In  evening  dress,  his  face  and  hands  emerging  from 
his  shirt  and  collar,  he  looked  like  an  enormous  dish 
of  strawberries  and  cream. 

'  I've  ordered  quails  for  you  ?  Will  that  do,  Miss 
Dainty?' 

*  Yes,  that's  better.' 

She  smiled  at  him  and  he  smiled  back. 

*  By  jove,  Vic,'  he  whispered, '  you  look  fine.  Noth- 
ing like  pink  shades  for  the  complexion.' 

*  I  think  you're  very  rude,'  said  Victoria  smiling. 

*  Honest,'  said  Cairns.  *  And  why  not  ?  No  harm 
in  looking  your  best  is  there?  Now  my  light's 
yellow.     Brings  me  down  from  tomato  to  carrot.* 

*  Fishing  again.     No  good,  Tommy  old  chap.' 

*  Never  mind  me,'  said  Cairns  with  a  laugh.  He 
paused  and  looked  intently  at  Victoria,  then  cautiously 
round  him.  They  were  almost  in  the  middle  of  the 
restaurant,  but  it  was  still  only  half  full.  Cairns  had 
fixed  dinner  for  seven,  though  they  were  only  due  for 
a  music  hall;  he  hated  to  hurry  over  his  coffee. 
Thus  they  were  in  a  little    island    of  pink  light 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  sa^ 

surrounded  by  penumbra.  Softly  attuned,  Mimi's 
song  before  the  gates  of  Paris  floated  in  from  the 
balcony. 

'Vic,'  said  Cairns  gravely,  'you're  lovely.  I've 
never  seen  you  like  this  before.' 

*  Do  you  like  my  gown  ?  '  she  asked  coquettishly. 

'  Your  gown  ! '  Cairns  said  with  scorn.  *  Your 
gown's  like  a  stalk,  Vic,  and  you're  a  big  white 
flower  bui'sting  from  it  ...  a  big  white  flower, 
pink  flecked,  scented.  .  .  .' 

'  Sh  .  .  .  Tom,  don't  talk  like  that  in  here.'  Victoria 
slid  her  foot  forward,  sHpped  off  her  shoe  and  gently 
put  her  foot  on  the  Major's  instep.  His  eyes  blinked 
quickly  twice.  He  reached  out  for  his  glass  and 
gulped  down  the  champagne. 

The  waiter  returned,  velvet  footed.  Every  one  of 
his  gestures  consecrated  the  quails  resting  on  the 
flowered  white  plates,  surrounded  by  a  succulent  lake 
of  aromatic  sauce. 

They  ate  silently.  There  was  already  between 
them  the  good  understanding  which  makes  speech 
unnecessary.  Victoria  looked  about  her  from  time  to 
time.  The  couples  interested  her,  for  they  were 
nearly  all  couples.  Most  of  them  comprised  a  man 
between  thirty  and  forty,  and  a  woman  some  years  his 
junior.  Their  behaviour  was  severely  decorous,  in 
fact  a  little  languid.  From  a  table  near  by  a  woman's 
voice  floated  lazily, 

'  I  rather  like  this  pub,  Robbie.' 

Indeed  the  acceptance  of  the  pubbishness  of  the 
place  was  characteristic  of  its  frequenters.  Most  of 
the  men  looked  vaguely  weary ;  some  keenly 
interested  bent  over  the  silver  laden  tables,  their 
eyes  fixed  on  their  women's  arms.  Here  and  there 
a  foreigner  with  coal  black  hair,  a  soft  shirt  front 
and  a  fancy  white  waistcoat,  spiced  with  originality 
the  sedateness  of  English  gaiety.  An  American 
woman  was  giving  herself  away  by  a  semitone,  but 


2^4  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

her  gown  was  exquisite  and  its  decolletage  challenged 
gravitation. 

Cairns'  attitude  was  exasperatingly  that  of  Gallio, 
save  as  concerned  Victoria.  His  eyes  did  not  leave 
her.  She  knew  perfectly  well  that  he  was  inspecting 
her,  watching  the  rise  and  fall  on  her  white  breast 
of  his  Christmas  gift,  a  diamond  cross.  They  both 
refused  the  mousse  and  Victoria  mischievously  leant 
forward,  her  hands  crossed  under  her  chin,  her  arms 
so  near  Cairns'  face  that  he  could  see  on  them  the 
fine  black  shading  of  the  down. 

'  Well,  Tom  ? '  she  asked.     '  Quite  happy  ? ' 

*  No,'  growled  Cairns, '  you  know  what  I  want.' 

'  Patience  and  shuflBe  the  cards,'  said  Victoria, '  and 
be  thankful  I'm  here  at  all.  But  I  musn't  rot  you 
Tommy  dear,  after  a  present  like  that.' 

She  slipped  her  fingers  under  the  diamond  cross. 
Cairns  watched  the  picture  made  by  the  rosy  manicured 
finger  nails,  the  sparkling  stones,  the  white  skin. 

*  A  pity  it  doesn't  match  my  rings,'  she  remarked. 
Cairns  looked  at  her  hand. 

'  Oh,  no  more  it  does.  I  thought  you  had  a  half 
hoop.   Never  mind,  dear.   Give  me  that  sapphire  ring.' 

'  What  do  you  want  it  for  ? '  asked  Victoria  with  a 
conscious  smile. 

'  That's  my  business.' 

She  slipped  it  off.     He  took  it,  pressing  her  fingers. 

*  I  think  you  ought  to  have  a  half  hoop,'  he  said 
conclusively. 

Victoria  leant  back  in  her  chair.  Her  smile  was 
triumphant.  Truly,  men  are  hard  masters  but  docile 
slaves. 

'  You'll  spoil  me,  Tom,'  she  said  weakly.  *I  don't 
want  you  to  think  that  I'm  fishing  for  things.  I'm 
quite  happy,  you  know.  I'd  rather  you  didn't  give 
me  another  ring.' 

*  Nonsense,'  said  Cairns,  *  I  wouldn't  give  it  you 
if  I  didn't  like  to  see  it  on  your  hand.' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  225 

*I  don't  believe  you,'  she  said  smoothly,  but  the 
phrase  rang  true. 

Some  minutes  later,  as  they  passed  down  the  stairs 
into  the  palm  room,  she  was  conscious  of  the  eyes 
that  followed  her.  Those  of  the  men  were  mostly 
a  little  dilated ;  the  women  seemed  more  cynically 
interested,  as  suits  those  who  appraise  not  bodies 
but  garments.  Major  Cairns,  walking  a  step  behind 
her,  was  still  looking  well,  with  his  close  cut  hair 
and  moustache,  stiff  white  linen  and  erect  bearing. 
Victoria  realised  herself  as  a  queen  in  a  worthy 
kingdom.  But  the  kingdom  was  not  the  one  she 
wished  to  hold  with  all  the  force  of  her  beauty.  That 
beauty  was  transitory,  or  at  least  its  subtler  quality 
was.  As  Victoria  lay  in  the  brougham  with  Cairns's 
arm  holding  her  close  to  him,  she  still  remembered 
that  the  fading  of  her  beauty  might  synchronise  with 
the  growth  of  her  wealth.  A  memory  from  some 
book  on  political  economy  flashed  through  her  mind  : 
beauty  was  a  wasting  asset. 

Cairns  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  An  atmosphere  of 
champagne,  coffee,  tobacco,  enveloped  her  as  her 
breath  mixed  with  his.  She  coiled  one  arm  round 
his  neck  and  returned  his  kisses. 

'  Vic,  Vic,'  he  murmured, '  can't  youlove  me  a  little  ? ' 

She  put  her  hand  behind  his  neck  and  once  more 
kissed  his  lips.  He  must  be  lulled,  but  not  into 
security. 

Victoria  had  never  realised  her  strength  and  her 
freedom  so  well  as  that  night,  as  she  leant  back  in 
her  box.  Her  face  and  breast,  the  Major's  shirt  front, 
were  the  only  spots  of  light  which  emerged  from  the 
darkness  of  the  box  as  if  pictured  by  a  German 
impressionist ;  down  below,  under  the  mist,  the 
damned  souls  revelled  in  the  cheap  seats ;  they 
swayed,  a  black  mass  speckled  with  hundreds  of 
white  collars,  dotted  with  points  of  fire  in  the  bowls 
of  pipes.  By  the  side  of  the  men,  girls  in  whit© 
P 


2  26  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

blouses  or  crude  colours,  shrouded  in  the  mist  of 
tobacco  smoke.  Now  and  then  a  ring  coiled  up  from 
a  cigar  in  the  stalls,  swirled  in  the  air  for  a  moment 
and  then  broke. 

Just  behind  the  footlights  blazing  over  the  black- 
ness, a  little  fat  man,  with  preposterous  breeches,  a 
coat  of  many  colours,  a  yellow  wisp  of  hair  clashing 
with  his  vinous  nose,  sang  of  the  Bank  and  hia 
manifold  accounts.  A  faint  salvo  of  applause  ushered 
him  out,  then  swelled  into  a  tempest  as  the  next 
number  vent  up. 

*  Tommy  Bung,  you're  in  luck,'  said  the  Major, 
taking  off  Victoria's  wrap. 

She  craned  forward  to  see.  A  woman  with  masses 
of  fair  hair,  bowered  in  blue  velvet,  took  a  long 
look  at  her  from  the  stage  box  through  an  opera 
glass. 

The  curtain  went  up.  There  was  a  roar  of  applause. 
Tommy  Bung  was  ready  for  the  audience  and  had 
already  fallen  into  a  tub  of  whitewash.  The  sorry 
object  extricated  itself.  His  red  nose  shone,  star  like. 
He  rolled  ferocious  eyes  at  a  girl.  The  crowd  rocked 
with  joy.  Without  a  word  the  great  Tommy  Bung 
began  to  dance.  At  once  the  hall  followed  the 
splendid  metre.  Up  and  down,  up  and  down,  twist- 
ing, curvetting.  Tommy  Bung  held  his  audience 
spellbound  with  rhymth.  They  swayed  sharply  with 
the  alternations. 

Victoria  watched  the  Major.  His  hands  were 
beating  time.  Tommy  Bung  brought  his  effort  to  a 
conclusion  by  beating  the  floor,  the  soles  of  his  feet, 
the  scenery,  and  punctuated  the  final  thwack  with 
a  well  timed  leap  on  the  prompter's  box. 

Victoria  was  losing  touch  with  things.  Waves  of 
heat  seemed  to  overwhelm  her;  little  figures  of 
jugglers,  gymnasts,  performing  dogs,  passed  before 
her  eyes  like  arabesques.  Then  again  raucous  voices. 
The  crowd   was    applauding  hysterically.     It  was 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  227 

Number  Fourteen,  whose  great  name  she  was  fated 
never  to  know.  Unsteadily  poised  on  legs  wide 
apart,  Number  Fourteen  sang.  Uncontrollable  glee 
radiated  from  him — 

Now  kids  is  orl  right 

When  yer  ain't  got  none ; 

Yer  can  sit  at  'ome 

An'  eat  'cher  dam  bun. 

I've  just  'ad  some  twins ; 

Nurse  says  don't  be  coy. 

For  they're  just  the  picture 

Of  the  lodger's  boy. 

Tinka,  Tinka,  Tinka ;  Tinka,  Tinka,  Tink 
'It  'im  in  the  eye  and  made  the  lodger  blink. 
Tinga,  Tinga,  Tinga ;  Tinga,  Tinga,  Teg 
Never  larf ed  so  much  since  farver  broke  'is  leg. 

A  roar  of  applause  encouraged  him.  Victoria  saw 
Cairns  carried  away,  clapping,  laughing.  In  the  bar 
below  she  could  hear  continuously  the  thud  of  the 
levers  belching  beer.  Number  Fourteen  was  still 
singing,  his  smile  wide-slit  through  his  face — 

Now  me  paw-in-law 

'E's  a  rum  ole  bloke ; 

Got  a  'and  as  light 

As  a  ton  o'  coke. 

Came  'ome  late  one  night 

An'  what  oh  did  'e  see  ? 

Saw  me  ma-in-law 

On  the  lodger's  knee. 

Tinka,  Tinka,  Tinka ;  Tinka,  Tinka,  Tink 
'It  'im  in  the  eye  an'  made  the  lodger  blink. 
Tinga,  Tinga,  Tinga ;    Tinga,  Tinga,  Teg, 
Never  larfed  so  much  since  farver  broke  'is  leg. 

Enthusiasm  was  rising  high.  Number  Fourteen 
braced  himself  for  his  great  effort  on  the  effects  of 
beer.  Then,  gracious  and  master  of  the  crowd,  he 
beat  time  with  his  hands  while  the  chorus  sounded 
from  a  thousand  throats.     Victoria  happened  to  look 


228  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

at  Caims.     His  head  was  beating  time  and,  from  his 
lips  issued  gleefully : 

Tinka,  Tinka,  Tinka ;  Tinka,  Tinka,  Tink 
*It  'im  in  the  eye — 

Victoria  scrutinised  him  narrowly.     Caims  was  a 
phenomenon. 

*  Never  larfed  so  much  since  farver  broke  'is  leg,' 
roared  Caims.  *I  say,  Vic,  he  really  is  good.'  He 
noticed  her  puzzled  expression.  'I  say,  Vic,  what's 
up  ?     Don't  you  like  him  ?  ' 

Victoria  did  not  answer  for  a  second. 

*  Oh,  yes,  I — he's  very  funny — you  see  I've  never 
been  in  a  music  hall  before.' 

*  Oh,  is  that  it  ?  '  Cairns's  brow  cleared.  *  It's  a 
little  coarse,  but  so  natural.' 

'  Is  that  the  same  thing  ? '  asked  Victoria. 

'S'pose  it  is.  With  some  of  us  anyhow.  But 
what's  the  next  ?  ' 

Cairns  had  already  relapsed  into  the  programme. 
He  hated  the  abstract ;  a  public  school,  Sandhurst 
and  the  army  had  araioured  him  magnificently 
against  intrusive  thought.  They  watched  the  next 
turn  silently.  A  couple  of  cross-talk  comedians,  one 
a  shocking  creature  in  pegtop  trousers,  a  shock  yellow 
head  and  a  battered  opera  hat,  the  other  young, 
handsome  and  smart  as  a  superior  barber's  assistant, 
gibbered  incomprehensibly  of  songs  they  couldn't 
sing  and  lies  they  could  tell. 

The  splendid  irresponsibility  of  the  music  hall  was 
wasted  on  Victoria.  She  had  the  mind  of  a  school- 
mistress grafted  on  a  social  sense.  She  saw  nothing 
before  her  but  the  gross  riot  of  the  drunken.  She 
saw  no  humour  in  that  cockney  cruelty,  capable 
though  it  be  of  absurd  generosity.  She  resented  too 
Cairns's  boyish  pleasure  in  it  all;  he  revelled,  slie 
felt,  as  a  buffalo  wallows  in  a  mud  bath.  He  was 
gi'oss,  stupid,   dull.     It  was  degrading  to  be  his 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  itg 

instiTiment  of  pleasure.  But,  after  all,  what  did  it 
matter  ?  He  was  the  narrow  way  which  would  lead 
her  to  the  august. 

Though  Cairns  was  not  thin-skinned  he  perceived 
a  little  of  this.  Without  a  word  he  watched  the 
cross-talk  comedians,  then  the  'Dandy  Girl  of 
Cornucopia,'  a  rainbow  of  stifE  frills  with  a  voice 
like  a  fretsaw.  As  the  lights  went  down  for  the 
bioscope,  the  idea  of  reconciliation  that  springs  from 
fat  cheery  hearts  overwhelmed  him.  He  put  his 
hand  out  and  closed  it  over  hers.  With  a  tremendous 
effort  she  repressed  her  repulsion,  and  in  so  doing 
won  her  victory.  In  the  darkness  Cairns  threw  his 
arms  round  her.  He  drew  her  towards  him,  moved, 
the  least  bit  hysterical.  As  if  fearful  of  losing  her 
he  crushed  her  against  his  shirt  front. 

Victoria  did  not  resist  him.  Her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
blackness  of  the  roof  she  submitted  to  the  growing 
brutality  of  his  kisses  on  her  neck,  her  shoulders,  her 
cheeks.  Pressed  close  against  him  she  did  not  with- 
draw her  knees  from  the  grasp  of  his. 

'  Kiss  me,'  whispered  Cairns  imperiously. 

She  cast  down  her  eyes ;  she  could  hardly  see  his 
face  in  the  darkness,  nothing  but  the  glitter  of  his 
eyeballs.  Then,  unhurried  and  purposeful,  she 
pressed  her  lips  to  his.  The  lights  went  up  again. 
Many  of  the  crowd  were  stirring ;  Victoria  stretched 
out  her  arms  in  a  gesture  of  weariness. 

*  Let's  go  home,  Vic,'  said  Cairns, '  you're  tired.' 

'  Oh,  no,  I'm  not  tired,'  she  said.  '  I  don't  mind 
staying.' 

*  Well,  you're  bored.' 

*  No,  not  at  all,  it's  quite  interesting,'  said  Victoria 
judicially. 

'  Come  along,  Vic,'  said  Cairns  sharply.  He 
got  up. 

She  looked  up  at  him.  His  face  was  redder,  more 
swollen  than  it  had  been  half-an-hour  before.     His 


230  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

eyes  followed  every  movement  of  her  arms  and 
shoulders.  With  a  faint  smile  of  understanding  and 
the  patience  of  those  who  play  lone  hands,  she  got 
up  and  let  him  put  on  her  wrap.  As  she  put  it  on 
she  made  him  feel  against  his  fingers  the  sweep 
of  her  arm ;  she  rested  for  a  moment  her  shoulder 
against  his. 

In  the  cab  they  did  not  exchange  a  word.  Victoria's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  leaden  sky ;  she  was  this  man's 
prey.  But,  after  all,  one  man's  prey  or  another? 
The  prey  of  those  who  demand  bitter  toil  from  the 
charwoman,  the  female  miner,  the  P.R.R,  girl ;  or  of 
those  who  want  kisses,  soft  flesh,  pungent  scents, 
what  did  it  all  amount  to  ?  And,  in  Oxford  Street, 
a  sky  sign  in  the  shape  of  a  horse-shoe  advertising 
whisky  suddenly  reminded  her  of  the  half  hoop,  a 
step  towards  that  capital  which  meant  freedom. 
No,  she  was  not  the  prey — at  least  not  in  the  sense  of 
the  bait  which  finally  captures  the  salmon. 

Cairns  had  not  spoken  a  word.  Victoria  looked  at 
him  furtively.  His  hands  were  clenched  before  him ; 
in  his  eyes  shone  an  indomitable  purpose.  He  was 
going  to  the  feast  and  he  would  foot  the  bill.  On 
arriving  at  Elm  Tree  Place  he  walked  at  once  into 
his  dressing  room,  while  Victoria  went  into  her 
bedroom.  She  knew  his  mood  well  and  knew  too 
that  he  would  not  be  long.  She  did  not  fancy  over- 
much the  scene  she  could  conjure  up.  In  another 
minute  or  two  he  would  come  in  with  the  culture  of 
a  thousand  years  groimd  down,  smothered  beneath 
the  lava-like  flow  of  animalism.  He  would  come 
with  his  hands  shaking,  ready  to  be  cruel  in  the 
exaction  of  his  rights.  She  hovered  between  repul- 
sion and  an  anxiety  which  was  almost  anticipation  ; 
Cairns  was  the  known  and  the  unknown  at  once. 
But  whatever  his  demands  they  should  be  met  and 
satisfied,  for  business  is  business  and  its  justification 
is  profits.     So  Victoria   braced    herself    and,   with 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  231 

feverisli  activity,  twisted  up  her  hair,  sprayed  her- 
self with  scent,  jumped  into  bed  and  turned  out  the 
light. 

As  she  did  so  the  door  opened.  She  was  conscious 
for  a  fraction  of  a  second  of  the  bright  quadrilateral 
of  the  open  door  where  Cairns  stood  framed,  a  broad 
black  silhouette. 


CHAPTER  in 

*  Yes,  I'm  a  lucky  beggar,'  soliloquised  Cairns.  He 
gave  a  tug  to  the  leads  at  which  two  Pekingese 
spaniels  were  straining.  *  Come  along,  you  little 
brutes,'  he  growled.  The  spaniels,  intent  upon  a 
piece  of  soiled  brown  paper  in  the  gutter,  refused  to 
move. 

*  Obstinate,  sir,'  said  a  policeman  respectfully. 

*  Devilish.     Simply  devilish.     Fine  day,  isn't  it  ?  * 

*  Blowing  up  for  rain,  sir.' 

*  Maybe.     Come  along,  Snoo ;  that'll  do.' 

Cairns  dragged  the  dogs  up  the  road.  Snoo  and 
Poo,  husband  and  wife,  had  suddenly  fascinated  him 
in  Villiers  Street  that  morning.  He  was  on  his  way 
to  offer  them  at  Victoria's  shrine.  Instinctively  he 
liked  the  smart  dog,  as  he  liked  the  smart  woman 
and  the  American  novel.  Snoo  and  Poo,  tiny,  fat, 
curly,  khaki-coloured,  with  their  flat  Kalmuck  faces, 
unwillingly  trundled  behind  him.  They  would, 
thought  Cairns,  be  in  keeping  with  the  establish- 
ment. A  pleasant  establishment.  A  nice  little 
house,  in  its  quiet  street  where  nothing  ever  seemed 
to  pass,  except  every  hour  or  so  a  cab.  It  was 
better  than  a  home,  for  it  offered  all  that  a  home 
offers,  soft  carpets,  discreet  servants,  nice  little 
limches  among  flowers  and  well-cleaned  plate,  and 
beyond,  something  that  no  home  contains.  It  was 
adventurous.  Cairns  had  knocked  about  the  world 
a  good  deal  and  had  collected  sensations  as  finer 
natures  collect  thoughts.    The  women  of  the  past 

•3a 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  233 

met  and  caressed  on  steam-boats,  in  hotels  at  Cairo, 
Singapore  and  Cape  Town,  the  tea  gardens  of  Kobe 
and  the  stranger  mj^steries  of  Zanzibar,  all  this  had 
left  him  weary  and  sighing  for  softiething  like  the 
English  home.  Indeed  he  grew  more  sentimental 
as  he  thought  of  Dover  cliffs  every  time  his  tailor 
called  the  measurement  of  his  girth.  An  extra 
quarter  of  an  inch  invariably  coincided  with  a  senti- 
mental pang.  Cairns,  however,  would  not  yet  have 
been  capable  of  settling  down  in  a  hunting  county 
with  a  well-connected  wife,  a  costly  farming  experi- 
ment and  the  shilling  weeklies.  A  transition  was 
required;  he  had  no  gift  of  introspection,  but  his 
relations  with  Victoria  were  expressions  of  this  mood. 
Thus  he  was  happy. 

He  never  entered  the  little  house  in  Elm  Tree  Place 
without  a  thrill  of  pleasure.  Under  the  placid  mask 
of  its  respectability  and  all  that  went  with  it,  clean 
white  steps,  half  curtains,  bulbs  in  the  window  boxes, 
there  flowed  for  him  a  swift  hot  stream.  And  in 
that  stream  flourished  a  beautiful  white  lily  whose 
petals  opened  and  smiled  at  will. 

'  I  wonder  whether  I'm  in  love  with  her  ? '  This 
was  a  frequent  subject  for  Cairns's  meditations. 
Victoria  was  so  much  more  for  him  than  any  other 
woman  had  been  that  he  always  hesitated  to  answer. 
She  charmed  him  sensually,  but  other  women  had 
done  likewise ;  she  was  beautiful,  but  he  could  con- 
ceive of  greater  beauty.  Her  intellect  he  did  not 
consider,  for  he  was  almost  unaware  of  it.  For  him 
she  was  clever,  in  the  sense  that  women  are  clever  in 
men's  eyes  when  they  can  give  a  smart  answer, 
understand  Bradshaw  and  order  a  possible  combina- 
tion at  a  restaurant.  What  impressed  him  was 
Victoria's  coolness,  the  balance  of  her  unhurried 
mind.  Now  and  then  he  caught  her  reading  curious 
books,  such  as  Smiles^  s  Self -Help,  Letters  of  a  Self- 
Made  Merchant  to  his  Son  and  Thus  Spake  Zara  .  .  . 


234  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Somethwg,  by  a  man  witli  a  funny  name ;  but  this 
was  all  part  of  her  character  and  of  its  novelty.  He 
did  not  worry  to  scratch  the  surface  of  this  brain ; 
virgin  soils  did  not  interest  him  in  the  mental  sense. 
Sometimes,  when  he  enounced  a  political  opinion  or 
generalised  on  the  problems  of  the  day  as  stated  in. 
the  morning  paper,  he  would  find,  a  little  uneasily, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  him  with  a  strangely  interested 
look.  But  her  eyelids  would  at  once  be  lowered  and 
her  lips  would  part,  showing  a  little  redder  and 
moister,  causing  his  heart  to  beat  quicker,  and  he 
would  forget  his  perplexity  as  he  took  her  hand  and 
stroked  her  arm  with  gentle  insistence. 

Cairns  dragged  Snoo  and  Poo  up  the  steps  of  the 
little  house  still  grumbling,  panting  and  protesting 
that,  as  drawing-room  dogs,  they  objected  to  exercise 
in  any  form.  He  had  a  latchkey,  but  always  refrained 
from  using  it.  He  liked  to  ring  the  bell,  to  feel  like 
a  guest.  It  would  have  been  commonplace  to  enter 
his  hall  and  hang  up  his  hat  on  his  peg.  That  would 
have  been  home  and  home  only.  To  ask  whether 
Mrs  Ferris  was  in  was  more  adventurous,  for  she 
might  be  out.  And  if  she  expected  him,  then  it  was 
an  assignation  ;  adventure  again. 

The  unimposing  Mary  let  him  in.  For  a  fraction 
of  a  second  she  looked  at  the  Major,  then  at  the 
floor. 

'Mrs  Ferris  in?* 

'Yes,  sir,  Mrs  Ferris  is  in  the  boudoir.'  Mary's 
voice  fell  on  the  last  necessary  word  like  a  dropgate. 
She  had  been  asked  a  question  and  answered  it. 
That  was  the  end  of  it.  Cairns  was  the  master  of 
her  mistress.     What  respect  she  owed  was  paid. 

Cairns  deposited  his  hat  and  coat  in  Mary's  hands. 
Then,  lifting  Snoo  under  one  arm  and  Poo  under  the 
other,  both  grumbling  vigorously  and  kicking  with 
their  hind  legs,  he  walked  to  the  boudoir  and  pushed 
it  open  with  his  shoulder.     Victoria  was  sitting  at 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  ^35 

the  little  bureau  writing  a  letter.  Cairns  watched 
her  for  two  seconds,  rejoicing  in  the  firm  white 
moulding  of  her  neck,  in  the  dark  tendrils  of  hair 
clustering  low,  dwindling  into  the  central  line  of 
down  which  teUs  of  breeding  and  health.  Then 
Victoria  turned  round  sharply. 

*  Oh,'  she  said,  with  a  little  gasp.  *  Oh,  Tom,  the 
ducks ! ' 

Cairns  laughed  and,  walking  up  to  her,  dropped 
Snoo  on  her  lap  and  Poo,  snuffling  ferociously,  on  the 
floor.  Victoria  buried  her  hands  in  Snoo's  thick 
coat ;  the  dog  gurgled  joyfully  and  rolled  over  on  its 
side.    Victoria  laughed,  muzzling  Snoo  with  her  hand. 

Cairns  watched  the  picture  for  a  moment.  He 
was  absurdly  reminded  of  a  girl  in  Java  who  nursed 
a  black  marmoset  against  her  yellow  breast.  And  as 
Victoria  looked  up  at  him,  her  chin  now  resting  on 
Snoo's  brown  head,  a  soft  wave  of  scent  rose  towards 
him.  He  knelt  down,  throwing  his  arms  round  her 
and  the  dog,  gathering  them  both  into  his  embrace. 
As  his  lips  met  hers  and  clung  to  them,  her  perfume 
and  the  ranker  scent  of  the  dog  filled  his  nostrils, 
burning  aphrodisiac  into  his  brain. 

Victoria  freed  herself  gently  and  rose  to  her  feet, 
still  nursing  Snoo,  and  laughingly  pushed  him  into 
Cairns' s  face. 

'  Kiss  him,'  she  said,  *  no  favours  here.' 

Cairns  obeyed,  then  picked  up  Poo  and  sat  down 
on  the  couch. 

*  This  is  sweet  of  you,  Tom,'  said  Victoria.  *  They 
are  lovebirds.' 

*  I'm  glad  you  like  them ;  this  is  Poo  I'm  holding, 
yours  is  Snoo.' 

*  Odd  names,'  said  Victoria. 

*  Chinese  according  to  the  dealer,'  said  Cairns,  *  but 
I  don't  pretend  to  know  what  they  mean.' 

'  Never  mind,'  said  Victoria,  *  they're  lovebirds,  and 
BO  are  you,  Tom.' 


as6  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

CairnB  looked  at  her  silently,  at  her  full  erect  figure 
and  smiling  eyes.  He  was  a  lucky  beggar,  a  damned 
lucky  beggar. 

'  And  what  is  this  bribe  for  ? '  she  asked. 

*  Oh,  nothing.  Knew  you'd  like  them,  beastly 
tempers  and  as  game  as  mice.  Women's  dogs,  you 
know.' 

*  Generalising  again,  Tom.     Besides  I  hate  mice.' 
Cairns  drew  her  down  by  his  side  on  the  couch. 

Everything  in  this  woman  interested  and  stimulated 
him.  She  was  always  fresh,  always  young.  The 
touch  of  her  hand,  the  smell  of  her  hair,  the  feel  of  her 
skirts  winding  round  his  ankles,  all  that  was  magic  ; 
every  little  act  of  hers  was  a  taking  of  possession. 
Every  time  he  mirrored  his  face  in  her  eyes  and  saw 
the  eyelids  slowly  veil  and  unveil  them,  something 
like  love  crept  into  his  soul.  But  every  passionate 
embrace  left  him  weak  and  almost  repelled.  She  was 
his  property ;  he  had  paid  for  her ;  and,  insistent 
thought,  what  would  she  have  done  if  he  had  not 
been  rich  ? 

Half  an  hour  passed  away.  Victoria  lay  passive  in 
his  arms.  Snoo  and  Poo,  piled  in  a  heap,  were 
snuflOdng  drowsily.  There  was  a  ring  at  the  front 
door,  then  a  slam.  They  could  hear  voices.  They 
started  up. 

'  Who  the  deuce  ....?'  said  Cairns. 

Then  they  heard  someone  in  the  dining-room 
beyond  the  door.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  door 
of  the  boudoir. 

'  Come  in,'  said  Victoria. 

Mary  entered.  Her  placid  eyes  passed  over  the 
Major's  tie  which  had  burst  out  of  his  waistcoat, 
Victoria's  tumbled  hair. 

*  Mr  V/ren,  mum,'  she  said. 

Victoria  staggered.  Her  hands  knotted  themselves 
together  convulsively. 

*  Good  God,'  she  whispered. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  a37 

'Who  is  it?  What  does  he  want?  What  name 
did  you  say  ? '  asked  Cairns.  Victoria's  excitement 
was  infecting  him. 

Victoria  did  not  answer.  Mary  stood  before  them, 
her  eyes  downcast  before  the  drama.  She  was  wait- 
ing for  orders. 

'  Can't  yon  speak  ? '  growled  Cairns.     *  Who  is  it  ? ' 

Victoria  found  her  voice  at  last. 

*  My  brother,'  she  said  hoarsely. 

Cairns  did  not  say  a  word.  He  walked  once  up  and 
once  down  the  room,  stopped  before  the  mirror  to 
settle  his  tie.     Then  turned  to  Mary. 

'  Tell  the  gentleman  Mrs  Ferris  can't  see  him  ? ' 

Mary  turned  to  go.  There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps 
in  the  dining-room.  The  button  of  the  door  turned 
twice  as  if  somebody  was  trying  to  open  it.  The 
door  was  locked  but  Cairns  almost  leaped  towards  it. 
Victoria  stopped  him. 

'  No,'  she  said,  '  let  me  have  it  out.  Tell  Mr  Wren 
I'm  coming,  Mary.' 

Mary  turned  away.  The  incident  was  fading  from 
her  mind  as  a  stone  fades  away  as  it  falls  into  an 
abyss.  Victoria  clung  to  Cairns  and  whispered  in 
his  ear. 

'  Tom,  go  away,  go  away.  Come  back  in  an  hour. 
I  beg  you.* 

'  No,  old  girl,  I'm  going  to  see  you  through,'  said 
Cairns  doggedly. 

'  No,  no,  don't.'  There  was  fear  in  her  voice.  *  I 
inust  have  it  out.     Go  away,  for  my  sake,  Tom.' 

She  pushed  him  gently  into  the  hall,  forced  him  to 
pick  up  his  hat  and  stick  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him.  She  braced  herself  for  the  effort ;  for  a  second 
the  staircase  shivered  before  her  eyes  like  a  road  in 
the  heat. 

'  Now  for  it,'  she  said,  *  I'm  in  for  a  row.' 

A  pleasant  little  tingle  was  in  her  veins.  She 
opened  the  dining-room  door.    It  was  not  very  light. 


238  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

There  was  a  slight  singing  in  her  ears.  She  saw 
nothing  before  her  except  a  man's  legs  clad  in  worn 
grey  trousers  where  the  knees  jutted  forward  sharply. 
With  an  effort  she  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  Edward 
in  the  face. 

He  was  pale  and  thin  as  ever.  A  ragged  wisp  of 
yellow  hair  hung  over  the  left  side  of  his  forehead. 
He  peered  at  her  through  his  silver-mounted  glasses. 
His  hands  were  twisting  at  his  watch  chain,  quickly, 
nervously,  like  a  mouse  in  a  wheel.  As  she  looked  at 
his  weak  mouth  his  insignificance  was  revealed  to  her. 
Was  this,  this  creature  with  the  vague  idealistic  face, 
the  high  shoulders,  something  to  be  afraid  of  ?    Pooh ! 

'  Well,  Edward  ? '  she  said,  involuntarily  aggressive. 

Wren  did  not  answer.  His  hands  suddenly  stopped 
revolving. 

*  Well,  Edward  ? '  she  repeated.  *  So  you've  found 
me?' 

*Yes,'  he  said  at  length.     *I  .   .   .   .     Yes,  I've 
found  you.'     The  movement  of  his  hands  began  again. 
'Well?' 

*  I  know.     I've  found  out.  ...  I  went  to  Finsbuiy .' 

*  Oh  ?  I  suppose  you  mean  you  tracked  me  from 
my  old  rooms.  I  suppose  Betty  told  you  I  .  .  .  my 
new  occupation.' 

Wren  jumped. 

*  Damn,'  he  growled.     'Damn  you.* 

Victoria  smiled.  Edward  swearing.  It  was  too 
funny.  What  an  awful  thing  it  was  to  have  a  sense 
of  humour. 

*  You  seem  to  know  all  about  it,'  she  said  smoothly. 
*  But  what  do  you  want  ? ' 

'How  dare  you?'  growled  Edward.  *A  woman 
like  you ' 

A  hard  look  came  into  Victoria's  eyes. 

'  That  will  do  Edward,  I  know  my  own  business.' 

'Yes,  a  dirty  business.'  A  hot  flush  spread  over 
the  man's  thin  cheeks. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  239 

*  You  little  ciir.'  Victoria  smiled ;  she  could  feel 
her  lips  baring  her  eye  teeth.     '  Fool.' 

Edward  stared  at  her.  Passion  was  stifling  his 
words. 

*  It's  a  lot  you  know  about  life,  schoolmaster,'  she 
sneered.  *  Who  are  you  to  preach  at  me  ?  Is  it  your 
business  if  I  choose  to  sell  my  body  instead  of  selling 
my  labour  ? ' 

'You're  disgraced.'  His  voice  went  down  to  a 
hoarse  whisper.     '  Disgraced.' 

Victoria  felt  a  wave  of  heat  pass  over  her  body. 

'Disgraced,  you  fool?  Will  an;^))ody  ever  teach 
you  what  disgrace  is?  There's  no  such  thing  as 
disgrace  for  a  woman.  All  women  are  disgraced 
when  they're  born.  We're  parasites,  toys.  That's 
all  we  are.  You've  got  two  kinds  of  uses  for  us,  lords 
and  masters !  One  kind  is  honourable  labour,  as  you 
say,  namely  the  work  undertaken  by  what  you  call 
the  lower  classes;  the  other's  a  share  in  the 
nuptial  couch,  whether  illegal  or  legal.  Yes,  your 
holy  matrimony  is  only  another  name  for  my 
profession.' 

'You've  no  right  to  say  that,*  cried  Edward. 
'  You're  trying  to  drag  down  marriage  to  your  level. 
When  a  woman  marries  she  gives  herself  because  she 
loves  ;  then  her  sacrifice  is  sublime.'  He  stopped  for 
a  second.  Idealism,  sentimentalism,  other  names  for 
ignorance  of  life,  clashed  in  his  self-conscious  brain 
without  producing  light.  '  Oh,  Victoria,'  he  said, 
'  you  don't  know  how  awful  it  is  for  me  to  find  you 
like  this,  my  little  sister  ...  of  course  you  can't 
love  him  ...  if  you'd  married  him  it  would  have 
been  different.' 

'  Ah,  Edward,  so  that's  your  philosophy.  You  say 
that  though  I  don't  love  him,  if  I'd  married  him  it 
would  have  been  different.  So  j^ou  won't  let  me 
surrender  to  a  man  unless  I  can  trick  him  or  goad 
him  into  binding  himself  to  me  for  life.     If  T  don't 


240  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

love  him  I  may  marry  him  and  make  his  life  a  hell 
and  I  shall  be  a  good  woman ;  but  I  mustn't  live 
with  him  illegally  so  that  he  may  stick  to  me  only  so 
long  as  he  cares  for  me.' 

'  I  didn't  say  that,'  stammered  Edward.  *  Of  course, 
it's  wrong  to  marry  a  man  you  don't  care  for  .  .  . 
but  marriage  is  different,  it  sanctifies.' 

*  Sanctifies !  Nothing  sanctifies  anything.  Our 
deeds  are  holy  or  unholy  in  themselves.  Oh,  under- 
stand me  well,  I  claim  no  ethical  revelation ;  I  don't 
care  whether  my  deeds  are  holy  or  not.  I  judge 
nothing,  not  even  myself.  All  I  say  is  that  your  holy 
bond  is  a  farce  ;  if  women  were  free — that  is,  trained, 
able  and  allowed  to  earn  fair  wages  for  fair  labour — 
then  marriage  might  be  holy.  But  marriage  for  a 
woman  is  a  monetary  contract.  It  means  that  she  is 
kept,  clothed,  amused  ;  she  is  petted  like  a  favourite 
dog,  indulged  like  a  spoiled  child.  In  exchange  she 
gives  her  body.' 

*No,  no.' 

*  Yes,  yes.  And  the  difference  between  a  married 
woman  and  me  is  her  superior  craft,  her  ability  to 
secure  a  grip  upon  a  man.  You  respect  her  because 
she  is  permanent,  as  you  respect  a  vested  interest.' 

The  flush  rose  again  in  Edward's  cheeks.  As  he 
lost  ground  he  fortified  his  obstinacy. 

'  You've  sold  yourself,'  he  said  quickly,  '  gone  down 
into  the  gutter.  .  .  .  Oh ! ' 

*  The  gutter ! '  Victoria  was  so  full  of  contempt 
that  it  almost  hurt  her.  '  Of  course  I'm  in  the  gutter. 
I  always  was  in  the  gutter.  I  was  in  the  gutter  when 
I  married  and  my  husband  boarded  and  lodged  me  to 
be  his  favourite.  I  was  in  the  gutter  when  I  had  to 
kow-tow  to  underbred  people ;  to  be  a  companion  is 
to  prostitute  friendship.  You  don't  mind  that,  do 
you  ?  I  was  in  the  gutter  in  the  tea  shops,  when  I 
decoyed  men  into  coming  to  the  place  because  they 
coidd  touch  me,  breathe  me.     I'm  u\  *h.e  gutter  now, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  241 

but  I'm  in  the  right  one.  I've  found  the  one  that's 
going  to  make  me  free.' 

Edward  was  shaken  by  her  passion. 

'  You'll  never  be  free,'  he  faltered,  *  you're  an 
outcast.' 

'  An  outcast  from  what  ? '  sneered  Victoria.  '  From 
society?  What  has  society  done  for  me?  It's 
kicked  me,  it's  bled  me.  It's  made  me  work  ten 
hours  a  day  for  eight  bob  a  week.  It'd  have  sucked 
me  dry  and  offered  me  the  workhouse,  or  the  Thames 
at  the  end.    It  made  me  almost  a  cripple.' 

Edward  stared. 

*  Yes,'  said  Victoria  savagely.  *  That  makes  you 
squirm,  sentimentalist.     Look  at  that ! ' 

She  put  her  foot  on  a  chair,  tucked  up  her  skirt, 
tore  down  the  stocking.  Purplish  still,  the  veins 
stood  out  on  the  firm  white  flesh. 

Edward  clenched  both  his  hands  and  looked  away. 
A  look  of  pain  was  in  his  eyes. 

*  Yes,  look  at  that,'  raged  Victoria.  *  That's  what 
your  society's  done  for  me.  It's  chucked  me  into  the 
water  to  teach  me  to  swim,  and  it's  gloated  over  every 
choke.  It's  fine  talking  about  chivalry,  isn't  it,  when 
you  see  what  honest  labour's  done  for  me,  isn't  it  ? 
It's  fine  talking  about  purity  when  you  see  the  price 
your  society  pays  me  for  being  what  I  am,  isn't  it? 
Look  at  me.  Look  at  my  lace,  look  at  my  diamonds, 
look  at  my  house  .  .  .  and  think  of  the  other  side : 
eight  bob  a  week,  ten  hours  work  a  day,  a  room 
with  no  fire,  and  a  bed  with  no  sheets.  But 
I  know  your  society  now,  and  as  I  can't  kill 
it  I'll  cheat  it.  I've  served  it  and  it's  got  two 
years  of  my  life  ;  but  I'm  going  to  get  enough  out  of 
it  to  make  it  crawl.' 

She  strode  towards  Edward. 

*  So  don't  you  come  preaching  to  me,'  she  hissed. 
Edward's   head  bent   down.      Slowly  he   walked 

towards  the  door. 


Ui  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  Yes,'  she  said,  *  go.  I've  no  use  for  you.  I'm  out 
for  stronger  meat.' 

He  opened  the  door,  then,  without  looking  up, 

'Good-bye,'  he  said. 

The  door  closed  behind  him.  Victoria  looked 
about  her  for  some  seconds,  then  sat  down  in  the 
carving  chair,  her  arms  outstretched  on  the  table. 
Her  teeth  were  clenched  now,  her  jaw  set ;  with 
indomitable  purpose  she  looked  out  into  the  darkening 
room  where  she  saw  the  battle  and  victory  of  life. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Victoria  had  never  loved  adventure  for  its  own  sake. 
The  change  from  drudgery  to  leisure  was  grateful  as 
was  all  it  brought  in  the  shape  of  pretty  clothes, 
jewels  and  savoury  dishes  ;  but  she  realised  every  day 
better  that,  taking  it  as  a  profession,  her  career  was 
no  great  success.  It  afforded  her  a  fair  livelihood, 
but  the  wasting  asset  of  her  beauty  could  not  be 
replaced ;  thus  it  behoved  her  to  amortize  its  value 
at  a  rapid  rate.  She  felt  much  better  in  health  ;  her 
varicose  veins  had  gone  down  a  good  deal,  but  she 
still  preserved  a  dark  mystery  about  them  ;  after  six 
months  of  intimate  association.  Cairns  did  not  yet 
know  why  he  had  never  seen  Victoria  without  her 
stockings.  Being  man  of  the  world  enough  to 
know  that  discretion  is  happiness,  he  had  never 
pressed  the  point ;  a  younger  or  more  sensitive  man 
would  have  torn  away  the  veil,  so  as  to  achieve  total 
intimacy  at  the  risk  of  wrecking  it.  He  was  not  of 
these,  and  vaguely  Victoria  did  not  thank  him  for 
a  sentiment  half  discreet,  half  indifferent;  such  an 
attitude  for  a  lover  suggested  disregard  for  essentials. 
As  she  grew  stronger  and  healthier  her  brain  worked 
more  clearly,  and  she  began  to  realise  that  even  ten 
years  of  association  with  this  man  would  yield  no 
more  than  a  pittance.  And  it  would  be  difficult  to 
hold  him  for  ten  years. 

Victoria  certainly  went  ably  to  work  to  preserve  for 
Cairns  the  feeling  of  novelty  and  adventure.  It  was 
practically  in  deference  to  her  suggestions  that  he 

■43 


844  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

retained  his  chambers ;  he  soon  realised  her  wisdom 
and  entered  into  the  spirit  of  their  life.  He  still 
understood  very  well  the  pleasure  of  being  her  guest. 
Victoria  found  no  decline  in  his  desire;  perhaps  it 
was  less  fiery,  but  it  was  as  coarse  and  as  constant. 
Certainly  she  was  woman  for  him  rather  than  merely 
a  woman ;  moreover  she  was  a  habit.  Victoria  saw 
this  clearly  enough  and  resolved  to  make  the  most  of  it. 

In  accordance  with  her  principles  she  kept  her 
expenses  down.  She  would  not  even  allow  herself  the 
luxury  of  a  maid  ;  she  found  it  cheaper  to  pay  Mary 
higher  wages.  When  Cairns  was  not  expected  her 
lunch  was  of  the  simplest,  and  Charlotte  discovered 
with  amazement  that  her  rakish  mistress  could  check  a 
grocer's  book.  Victoria  was  not  even  above  cheating 
the  Water  Board  by  omitting  to  register  her  garden 
tap.  All  these,  however,  were  petty  economies ;  they 
would  result  in  a  saving  of  perhaps  three  hundred 
a  year,  a  beggarly  sum  when  pitted  against  the  un- 
certainties of  her  profession. 

She  realised  all  this  within  three  or  four  months  of 
her  new  departure,  and  promptly  decided  that  Cairns 
must  be  made  to  yield  a  higher  revenue.  She  felt 
that  she  could  not  very  well  tell  him  that  a  thousand 
a  year  was  not  enough ;  on  the  face  of  it  it  was 
ample.  It  was  necessary  therefore  to  laimch  out  a 
little.  The  first  step  was  to  increase  her  visible 
supply  of  clothes,  and  this  was  easily  done  by  buying 
the  cheap  and  effective  instead  of  the  expensive  and 
good.  Cairns  knew  enough  about  women's  clothes  to 
detect  this  now  and  then,  but  the  changes  bewildered 
him  a  little  and  he  had  some  difficulty  in  seeing  the 
difference  between  the  latest  thing  and  the  cheapest. 
Whenever  she  was  with  him  she  affected  the  manners 
of  a  spendthrift;  she  would  call  cabs  to  carry  her 
a  hundred  yards,  give  a  beggar  a  shilling,  or  throw 
a  pair  of  gloves  out  of  the  window  because  they  had 
been  worn  once. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  245 

Cairns  smiled  tolerantly.  She  might  as  well  have 
her  fling,  he  thought,  and  a  lack  of  discipline  was  as 
charming  in  a  mistress  as  it  was  deplorable  in  a  wife. 
He  was  therefore  not  surprised  when,  one  morning, 
he  found  Victoria  apparently  nervous  and  worried. 
She  owned  that  she  was  short  of  cash.  In  fact  the 
manager  of  her  bank  had  written  to  point  out  that  her 
account  was  overdrawn. 

'  Dear  me,'  said  Cairns  with  mock  gravity,  *  you've 
been  going  it,  old  girl !  What's  all  this  ?  "  Self," 
"  Self,"  why  aU  these  cheques  are  to  "  Self."  You'll 
go  broke.' 

'  I  suppose  I  shall,'  said  Victoria  wearily.  *  I  don't 
know  how  I  do  it,  Tom,  I'm  no  good  at  accounts. 
And  I  hate  asking  you  for  more  money  .  .  .  but  what 
am  I  to  do  ? ' 

She  crossed  her  hands  over  her  knees  and  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  pretty  expression  of  appeal.  Cairns 
laughed. 

'  Don't  worry,'  he  said,  curling  a  lock  of  her  hair 
round  a  fat  forefinger.     '  I'll  see  you  through.' 

Victoria  received  that  afternoon  a  cheque  for  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  which  she  paid  into  her 
account.  She  did  not,  however,  inform  Cairns  that 
the  proceeds  of  the  "  Self "  cheques  had  been  paid 
into  a  separate  account  which  she  had  opened  with 
another  bank.  By  this  means,  she  was  always  able 
to  exhibit  a  gloomy  pass  book  whenever  it  was 
required. 

Having  discovered  that  Cairns  was  squeezable 
Victoria  felt  more  hopeful  as  to  the  future.  She  was 
his  only  luxury  and  made  the  most  of  his  liking  for 
jewellery  and  furs.  She  even  hit  upon  the  more 
ingenious  experiment  of  interesting  Barbezan  Soeurs 
in  her  little  speculations.  The  device  was  not  novel : 
for  a  consideration  of  ten  per  cent  these  bustling 
dressmakers  were  ready  to  provide  fictitious  bills  and 
even  solicitor's  letter?  couched  in  frigidly  menacing 


246  A  BED   OF  ROSES 

tenns.  Cairns  laugted  and  paid  solidly.  He  had 
apparently  far  more  money  than  he  needed.  Victoria 
was  almost  an  economy ;  without  her  he  would  have 
lost  a  fortune  at  bridge,  kept  a  yacht  perhaps 
and  certainly  a  motor.  As  it  was  he  was  quite 
content  with  his  poky  chambers  in  St  James',  a 
couple  of  clubs  which  he  never  thought  of  entering, 
the  house  in  Elm  Tree  Place  and  a  stock  of  good 
cigars. 

Cairns  was  happy,  and  Victoria  labouring  lightly 
for  large  profits,  was  contented  too.  Theirs  were 
lazy  lives,  for  Cairns  was  a  man  who  could  loaf.  He 
loafed  so  successfully  that  he  did  not  even  think  of 
interfering  with  Victoria's  reading.  She  now  read 
steadily  and  voraciously ;  she  eschewed  novels,  fearing 
the  influence  of  sentiment.  '  It  will  be  time  for 
sentiment  by  and  by,'  she  sometimes  told  herself. 
Meanwhile  she  armoured  her  heart  and  sharpened 
her  wits.  The  earlier  political  opinions  which  had 
formed  in  her  mind  under  the  pressure  of  toil  remained 
unchanged  but  did  not  develop.  She  recognised  her- 
self as  a  parasite  and  almost  gloried  in  it.  She 
evolved  as  a  system  of  philosophy  that  one's  conduct 
in  life  is  a  matter  of  alternatives.  Nothing  was  good 
and  nothing  was  evil ;  things  were  better  than  others 
or  worse  and  there  was  an  end  of  her  morality.  Victoria 
had  no  patience  with  theories.  One  day,  much  to 
Cairns  surprise,  she  violently  flung  Ingersoll's  essays 
into  the  fender. 

*  Steady  on,'  said  Cairns,  '  steady  on,  old  girl.' 

*  Such  rot,'  she  snarled. 

*  Hear,  hear,'  said  Cairns,  picking  up  the  book  and 
looking  at  its  title.  'Serve  you  right  for  reading 
that  sort  of  stuff.     I  can't  make  you  out,  Vic' 

Victoria  looked  at  him  with  a  faint  smile,  but 
refused  to  assign  a  cause  for  her  anger.  In  fact  she 
had  suddenly  been  irritated  by  Ingersoll's  definition 
of  morality.      *  Perceived   obligation,'   she   thought. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  247 

*  And  I  don't  perceive  any  obligation  ! '  She  consoled 
herself  suddenly  with  the  thought  that  her  amorality 
was  a  characteristic  of  the  superman. 

The  superman  preoccupied  her  now  and  then.  He 
was  a  good  subject  for  speculation  because  imponder- 
able and  inexistent.  The  nearest  approach  she  could 
think  of  was  a  cross  between  an  efi&cient  colonial 
governor  and  a  latter-day  prophet.  She  believed 
quite  sincerely  that  the  day  must  come  when  children 
of  the  light  must  be  born,  capable  of  ruling  and  of 
keeping  the  law.  She  saw  very  well  too  that  their  pro- 
duction did  not  lie  with  an  effete  aristocracy  any  more 
than  with  a  dirty  and  drunken  democracy  ;  probably 
they  would  be  neo-plutocrats,  men  full  of  ambition, 
lusting  for  power  and  yet  imbued  with  a  spirit  of 
icy  justice.  Her  earliest  tendency  had  been  towards 
an  idealistic  socialism.  Burning  with  her  own  wrongs 
and  touched  by  the  angelic  wing  of  sympathy,  she 
had  seen  in  the  communisation  of  wealth  the  only 
means  of  curbing  the  evils  it  had  hitherto  wrought. 
Further  observation  showed  her  however  that  an 
idealism  of  this  kind  would  not  lead  the  world 
speedily  into  a  peaceful  haven.  She  saw  too  well 
that  covetousness  was  still  lurking  snakelike  in  the 
bosom  of  man,  ready  to  rear  its  ugly  head  and  strike 
at  any  hand.  Thus  she  was  not  surprised  to  see  the 
chaos  which  reigned  among  socialists,  their  intriguing, 
their  jealousies,  their  unending  dissensions,  their 
apostacies.  This  did  not  throw  her  back  into  the 
stereotyped  philosophy  of  individualism ;  for  she  could 
not  help  seeing  that  the  system  of  modern  life  was 
absurd,  stupidly  wasteful  above  all  of  time,  labour 
and  wealth.  To  apply  Nietzscheism  to  socialism 
was,  however,  beyond  her;  to  reconcile  the  two 
doctrines  which  apparently  conflict  and  really  only 
overlap  was  a  task  too  difficult  for  a  brain  which  had 
lain  fallow  for  twenty-five  years.  But  she  dimly  felt 
that  Nietzscheism  did  not  mean    a    glorified    im- 


a48  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

perialisra,  but  a  worsliip  of  intellectual  efficiency  and 
the  stringent  morality  of  noblesse  oblige. 

Where  Victoria  began  to  part  issue  •with  her  own 
thoughts  was  when  she  considered  the  position  of 
women.  Their  outlook  was  one  of  unrelieved  gloom ; 
and  it  one  day  came  upon  her  as  a  revelation  that 
Nietzsche  and  Schopenhauer,  following  in  a  degree 
on  Rousseau,  had  forgotten  women  in  the  scheme  of 
life.  There  might  be  supermen  but  there  would  be 
no  superwomen  :  if  the  supermen  were  true  to  their 
type  they  would  have  to  crush  and  to  dominate  the 
women.  As  the  latter  fared  so  hard  at  the  hands  of 
the  pigmies  of  to-day,  what  would  they  do  if  they 
could  not  develop  in  time  to  resist  the  sons  of  Anak  ? 
Victoria  saw  that  the  world  wan  entering  upon  a  sex 
war.  Hitherto  a  shameful  state  of  peace  had  left 
women  in  the  hands  of  men,  turning  over  the  other 
cheek  to  the  smiter.  The  sex  war,  however,  held  forth 
no  hopes  to  her ;  in  the  dim  future,  sex  equality  might 
perhaps  prevail ;  but  she  saw  nothing  to  indicate  that 
women  had  sown  the  seeds  of  their  victory.  She  had 
no  wish  to  enrol  herself  in  the  ranks  of  those  who 
were  waging  an  almost  hopeless  battle,  armed  with 
untrained  intellects  and  unathletic  bodies.  She  could 
not  get  away  from  the  fact  that  the  best  woman  athletes 
cannot  compete  with  ordinary  men,  that  even  women 
with  high  intellectual  qualifications  had  not  ousted 
from  commanding  positions  men  of  inferior  ability. 

All  this,  she  thought,  was  unjust ;  but  why  hope  for 
a  change?  There  was  nothing  to  show  that  men 
grew  much  better  as  a  sex ;  then  why  pin  faith  to 
the  coming  of  better  times  ?  Women  were  parasites, 
working  only  under  constraint,  badly  and  at  uncon- 
genial tasks ;  their  right  to  live  was  based  on  their 
capacity  to  please.  This  brought  her  to  her  own 
situation.  The  future  lay  before  her  in  the  shape  of 
two  roads.  One  was  the  road  which  led  to  the 
struggle  for  life ;  ending,  she  felt  it  too  well,  in  a 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  249 

crawl  to  death  on  crippled  limbs.  The  other  was 
the  road  along  which  grew  roses,  roses  which  she 
could  pluck  and  sell  to  men ;  at  the  end  of  that  was 
the  heaven  of  independence.  It  had  golden  gates ; 
it  was  guarded  by  an  angel  in  white  garments  with 
a  palm  leaf  in  his  hands  and  beyond  lay  the  pleasant 
places  where  she  had  a  right  of  way.  And  as  she 
looked  again  the  heaven  with  the  golden  gates  turned 
into  a  bank  with  a  commissionaire  at  the  door. 

Her  choice  being  made,  she  did  not  regret  it.  For 
the  time  being  her  life  was  pleasant  enough,  and  if 
it  could  be  made  a  little  more  profitable  it  would 
soon  be  well  worth  living,  and  her  freedom  would  be 
earned.  Meanwhile  she  took  pleasure  in  small  things. 
The  little  house  was  almost  a  show  place,  so  delicate 
and  refined  were  its  inner  and  outer  details.  Victoria 
saw  to  it  that  frequently  changed  flowers  decorated 
the  beds  in  the  front  garden  ;  Japanese  trees,  dwarfed 
and  gnarled,  stood  right  and  left  of  the  steps,  scowl- 
ing like  tiny  Titans ;  all  the  blinds  in  the  house  were 
a  mass  of  insertion.  These  blinds  were  a  feature  for 
her;  they  implied  secrecy.  Behind  the  half  blinds 
w^ere  thick  curtains  of  decorated  muslin ;  behind 
these  again,  heavy  curtains  which  could  be  drawn 
at  will.  They  were  the  impenetrable  veil  which 
closed  off  from  the  world  and  its  brutalities  this 
oasis  of  forbidden  joys. 

In  the  house  also  she  was  ever  elaborating  sybari- 
tising  her  life.  She  had  a  branch  telephone  fixed  at 
the  head  of  her  bed ;  the  first  time  that  Cairns  used 
it  to  teU  his  man  to  bring  up  his  morning  coat  she 
had  the  peculiar  sensation  that  her  bed  was  in  touch 
with  the  world.  She  could  call  up  anybody,  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  the  Governor  of  the  Bank 
of  England  or  the  headquarters  of  the  Salvation  Army. 
Her  bed  was  the  centre  of  the  world.  She  fitted  the 
doors  of  her  bedroom  and  her  boudoir  with  curious 
little  locks  which  acted  on  the  pressure  of  a  fin  ger 


*5o  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

for  her  mind  was  turned  on  delicacies  and  the  sharp 
click  of  a  bolt,  the  grating  of  a  key  savoured  of  the 
definite,  therefore  of  the  coarse.  A  twist  of  the  knob 
between  two  fingers  and  the  world  was  silently  shut 
out. 

Now  too  that  she  was  beautiful  once  more  she 
revelled  in  mirrors.  The  existing  ones  in  her  bed- 
room and  in  the  boudoir  were  not  enough  ;  they  were 
public,  unintimate.  She  had  a  high  mirror  fixed  in 
the  bathroom,  so  that  she  could  see  herself  in  her 
freshness,  covered  with  pearly  beads  like  a  naiad. 
She  rejoiced  in  her  beauty,  in  her  renewed  strength ; 
she  often  stood  for  many  minutes  in  the  dim  steamy 
light  of  the  room,  analysing  her  body,  its  grace  and 
youth,  with  a  growing  consciousness  of  latent  power. 
Then,  suddenly,  the  faint  violet  streaks  of  the  varicose 
veins  would  intrude  upon  the  rite  and  she  would 
wrap  herself  up  jealously  in  her  bath  robe  so  that  not 
even  the  mirror  should  be  a  confidant  of  the  past. 


CHAPTER  V 

Week  after  week  passed  on,  and  now  monotony  drew 
her  stifling  cloak  over  Victoria.  Cairns  was  still  in  a 
state  of  beatitude  whicli  made  him  an  unexciting 
companion  ;  satisfied  in  his  egoism,  it  never  came  into 
his  mind  that  Victoria  could  tire  of  her  life.  He  spent 
many  afternoons  in  the  back  garden  under  a  rose- 
covered  pergola.  By  his  side  was  a  little  table  with 
a  syphon,  a  decanter  of  whisky,  and  a  box  of  cigars ; 
he  read  desultorily,  sometimes  the  latest  motor  novel, 
at  other  times  the  improving  memoirs  of  eighteenth 
century  noblewomen.  Now  and  then  he  would  look 
approvingly  at  Victoria  in  plain  white  drill,  delight- 
fully mischievous  under  a  sun-bonnet,  and  relapse 
into  his  book.  Once  he  quoted  *A  flask  of  wine,  a 
book  of  verse  .  .  .  .'  and  Victoria  went  into  sudden 
fits  of  laughter  when  she  remembered  Neville  Brown. 
The  single  hackneyed  line  seemed  to  link  malekind 
together. 

Cairns  was  already  talking  of  going  away.  June 
was  oppressively  hot  and  he  was  hankering  after  some 
quiet  place  where  he  might  do  some  sea-fishing  and 
get  some  golf.  He  was  becoming  dangerously  fat ;  and 
Victoria,  foreseeing  a  long  and  very  cheap  holiday, 
favoured  the  idea  in  every  way.  They  could  go  up  to 
Scotland  later  too  ;  but  Cairns  rather  hesitated  about 
this,  for  he  neither  cared  to  show  ofE  Victoria  before 
the  people  he  knew  on  the  moors,  nor  to  leave  her  for 
a  fortnight.  He  was  paying  the  penalty  of  Capua. 
His  plans  were  set  back,  however,  by  serious  trouble 

»5« 


252  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

which  had  taken  place  on  his  Irish  estate,  his  though 
still  in  the  hands  of  Marmaduke  Cairns's  executors. 
There  had  been  nightriding,  cattle  driving,  some 
boycotting.  The  situation  grew  so  tense  that  the 
executors  advised  Cairns  to  sell  the  estate  to  the 
tenants  but  the  latter  declined  the  terms;  matters 
came  to  a  deadlock  and  it  was  quite  on  the  cards  that 
an  application  might  be  made  under  the  Irish  Land 
Act.  It  was  clear  that  in  this  case  the  terms  would 
be  bad,  and  Cairns  was  called  to  Limerick  by  telegram 
as  a  last  chance.  He  left  Victoria,  grumbling  and 
cursing  Ireland  and  all  things  Irish. 

Left  to  herself,  Victoria  felt  rather  at  a  loose  end. 
The  cheerful  if  uninteresting  personality  of  Major 
Cairns  had  a  way  of  filling  the  house.  He  had  an 
expansive  mind ;  it  was  almost  chubby.  For  two 
days  she  rather  enjoyed  her  freedom.  The  summer 
was  gorgeous ;  St  John's  Wood  was  bursting  every- 
where into  flower  ;  the  trees  were  growing  opaque  in 
the  parks.  At  every  street  corner  little  whirlwinds  of 
dry  giit  swayed  in  the  hot  air.  One  afternoon 
Victoria  indulged  in  the  luxury  of  a  hired  private 
carriage,  and  flaunted  it  with  the  best  in  the  long  line 
on  the  south  side  of  the  Park.  Wedged  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  in  the  mass  she  felt  a  glow  come  over  her. 
The  horses  all  round  her  shone  like  polished  wood, 
the  carriage  panels  were  lustrous,  the  harness  was 
glittering,  the  brass  burnished  ;  all  the  world  seemed 
to  radiate  warmth  and  light.  Gaily  enough,  because 
not  jaded  by  repetition,  she  caused  the  carriage  to  do 
the  Ring,  twice.  She  felt  for  a  moment  that  she  was 
free,  that  she  could  vie  with  those  women  whose  lazy 
detachment  she  stirred  for  a  moment  into  curiosity 
by  her  deep  eyes,  dark  piled  hair  and  the  audacity 
of  her  diaphanous  crepe  de  chine. 

Cairns  was  still  in  Ireland,  struggling  conscienti- 
ously to  pile  up  unearned  increment;  and  Victoria, 
thoroughly  aimless,  suddenly  bethought  herself  of 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  453 

Farwell.  She  had  been  remiss  in  what  was  almost 
a  dnty.  Surely  she  ought  to  report  progress  to  the 
man  who  had  helped  to  open  her  eyes  to  the  realities 
of  life.  She  had  misapplied  his  teaching  perhaps, 
or  rather  remoulded  it,  but  still  it  was  his  teaching. 
Or  rather  it  was  what  a  woman  should  know,  as 
opposed  to  what  Thomas  Farwell  preached ;  if  men 
were  to  practise  that,  then  she  should  revise  her 
philosophy. 

At  ten  minutes  to  one  she  entered  the  Moorgate 
Street  P.R.R.  with  a  little  thrill.  Everything 
breathed  familiarity ;  it  was  like  coming  home,  but 
better,  for  it  is  sweeter  to  revisit  the  place  where  one 
has  suffered,  when  one  has  emerged,  than  to  brood 
with  gentle  sorrow  on  the  spot,  where  there  once  was 
joy.  She  knew  eveiy  landmark,  the  tobacconist,  the 
picture  shop,  still  full  of  'Mother's  Helps'  and  of 
*  artistic '  studies  in  the  nude  ;  there  was  the  red- 
coated  bootlack  too,  as  dirty  and  as  keenly  solicitous 
as  ever.  The  P.R.R.  itself  did  not  chill  her.  In  the 
crude  June  sunlight  its  nickel  shone  gaily  enough. 
Everything  was  as  before ;  the  cakes  had  been 
moulded  in  the  old  moulds,  and  here  was  the  old 
bin  of  fare,  unchanged  no  doubt ;  even  the  marble- 
topped  tables  and  the  half  cleaned  cruets  looked 
kindly  upon  her;  but  the  tesselated  red  and  blue 
floor  aroused  the  hateful  memory  of  another  Victoria 
on  her  hands  and  knees,  an  old  sack  round  her  waist, 
painfully  swaying  from  right  to  left,  swabbing  the 
tiles.  Little  rivulets  of  water  and  dirt  flowed  slowly 
across  the  spectre's  hand. 

As  she  went  down  the  steps  into  the  smoking-room 
she  crossed  with  the  manageress,  still  buxom  and 
erect ;  but  she  passed  unnoticed,  for  this  was  the  busy 
hour  when  the  chief  tried  to  be  simultaneously  on 
three  floors.  The  room  was  not  so  fiiU  as  it  had  once 
been.  She  sat  down  at  a  little  table  and  watched 
the  familiar  scene  for  some  minutes.    She  told  the 


a54  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

girl  she  would  wait  a  minute,  for  she  did  not  want  to 
miss  Farwell.  The  world  had  gone  round,  but 
apparently  the  P.R.R.  was  the  axis.  There  in  the 
corner  were  the  chess  players ;  to-day  they  only  ran 
four  boards,  but  at  one  of  them  a  fierce  discussion 
was  going  on  as  to  a  variation  of  the  queen's  pawn 
opening.  On  the  other  side  of  the  room  were  the 
young  domino  players,  laugliing  and  smoking 
cigarettes.  The  fat  and  yellow  Levantine  was 
missing.  Victoria  regretted  him,  for  the  apocalyptic 
figure  was  an  essential  part  of  the  ugly  past.  But 
there  was  '  old  dry  toast '  all  alone  at  his  little  table. 
He  had  not  changed ;  his  white  hair  still  framed 
thickly  his  beautiful  old  brown  face.  There  he  sat, 
still  silent  and  desolate,  waiting  for  the  end.  Victoria 
felt  a  pang  of  sorrow.  She  was  not  quite  hardened 
yet  and  she  realised  it  angrily.  There  must  be  no 
sympathy  and  no  quarter  in  her  game  of  life.  It  was 
too  late  or  too  soon  for  that.  Victoria  let  her  eyes 
stray  round  the  room.  There  were  the  young  men 
and  boys  or  some  of  the  same  breed,  in  their  dark 
suits,  brilliant  ties,  talking  noisily,  chaffing  one 
another,  gulping  down  their  small  teas  and  toasted 
scones.  A  conversation  between  two  older  men  was 
wafted  in  to  her  ears. 

*  Awful.  Have  you  tried  annelicide  ? ' 
At  that  moment  a  short  broad  figure  walked 
smartly  down  the  steps.  It  was  Thomas  Farwell, 
a  thin  red  book  under  his  arm.  He  went  straight 
through  to  the  old  table,  propped  his  book  against 
the  cruet  and  began  to  read.  Victoria  surveyed  him 
critically.  He  was  thinner  than  ever ;  his  hair  was 
more  plentifully  sprinkled  with  grey  but  had  receded 
no  further.  He  was  quite  near  her,  so  she  could  see 
his  unbrushed  collar  and  his  frayed  cuffs.  After  a 
moment  the  girl  came  and  stood  before  him ;  it  was 
Nelly,  big  and  raw-boned  as  ever,  handsome  still  like 
the  fine  beast  of  burden  she  was.    She  wore  no  apron 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  aS5 

now  in  proud  token  of  her  new  position  as  head 
waitress.  Now  the  voices  by  her  side  were  talking 
holidays. 

*  No,  Ramsgit's  good  enough  for  me.  Broadstairs 
and  all  these  little  places,  they're  so  tony — ' 

Maud  passed  quickly  before  Victoria.  The  poor 
little  girl  was  as  white  as  ever;  her  flaccid  cheeks 
danced  up  and  down  as  she  ran.  The  other  voice 
was  relating  at  length  how  its  owner  had  taken  his 
good  lady  to  Deal.  Nelly  had  left  Farwell,  walking 
more  slowly  than  the  other  girls,  as  befitted  her 
station.  Victoria  felt  herself  pluck  up  a  little 
courage,  crossed  the  room  followed  by  many  admiring 
glances,  and  quickly  sat  down  at  Farwell's  table. 
He  looked  up  quickly.  The  book  dropped  suddenly 
from  the  cruet. 

*  Victoria,'  he  gasped. 

*  Yes,'  she  said  smiling, 

'Well  .  .  .'  His  eyes  ran  over  her  close  fitting 
tussore  dress,  her  white  kid  gloves. 

'  Is  that  all  you've  got  to  say  to  me  ?  *  she  asked. 
*  Won't  you  shake  hands  ?  ' 

Farwell  put  out  his  hand  and  held  hers  for  a 
second.  He  was  smiling  now,  with  just  a  touch  of 
wistfulness  in  his  eyes. 

*  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,'  he  said  at  length. 

'  So  am  I,'  said  Victoria.  '  I  hope  you  don't  mind 
my  coming  here,  but  I  only  thought  of  it  this 
morning.' 

*  Mind,'  snapped  Farwell.  *  People  who  understand 
everything  never  mind  anything,' 

Victoria  smiled  again.  The  bumptious  aphorism 
was  a  sign  that  Farwell  was  still  himself.  For  a 
minute  or  so  they  looked  at  one  another.  Victoria 
wondered  at  this  man;  so  powerful  intellectually 
and  physically ;  and  yet  content  to  live  in  his  ideals 
on  a  pittance,  to  do  dull  work,  to  be  a  subordinate. 
Truly  a  caged  lion.    Farwell,  on  the  other  hand,  was 


256  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

looking  in  vain  for  some  physical  ravishes  to  justify 
Victoria's  profession,  for  some  gross  development  at 
least.  He  looked  in  vain.  Instead  of  the  pale  dark 
girl  vrith  large  grey  eyes  whom  he  had  known,  he 
now  saw  a  healthy  and  beautiful  woman  with  a  clear 
white  skin,  thick  hair,  red  lips. 

*  Well,'  he  said  with  a  laugh,  *  can  I  invite  you  to 
lunch  with  me  ? ' 

*  You  may,'  she  said.  '  I'll  have  a  small  coffee  and 
...  a  sunny  side  up,' 

Farvvell  laughed  and  signed  to  Nelly.  After  a 
minute  he  attracted  her  attention  and  gave  the  order 
without  Nelly  taking  any  interest  in  Farwell's  guest. 
It  might  be  rather  extraordinary,  but  her  supervisory 
duties  were  all-absorbent.  When  she  returned,  how- 
ever, she  stole  a  curious  look  at  Victoria  while  placing 
before  her  the  poached  egg  on  toast.  She  looked  at 
her  again,  and  her  eyes  dilated. 

*  Law,'  she  said,  *  Vic ! ' 

*  Yes,  Nelly,  how  are  you  ? '  Victoria  put  out  her 
gloved  hand.     Nelly  took  it  wonderingly. 

'  I'm  all  right,'  she  answered  slowly.  *  Just  been 
made  head  waitress,'  she  added  with  some  unction. 
Her  eyes  were  roving  over  Victoria's  clothes,  valuing 
them  like  an  expert. 

*  Congratulations,'  said  Victoria.  *  Glad  you're 
getting  on.' 

*  I  see  you  re  getting  on,'  said  Nelly,  with  a  touch 
of  sarcasm. 

*  So,  so,  things  aren't  too  bad.'  Victoria  looked  up. 
The  women's  eyes  crossed  like  rapiers ;  Nelly's  were 
full  of  suspicion.  The  conversation  stopped  then, 
for  Nelly  was  already  in  request  in  half  a  dozen 
quarters. 

'  She  knows,'  said  Victoria  smoothly. 

*  Of  course,'  said  Farwell.  '  Trust  a  woman  to 
know  the  worst  about  another  and  to  show  it  up. 
Every  little  helps  in  a  contest  such  as  life.' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  257 

Farwell  then,  questioned  her  as  to  her  situation, 
but  she  refused  him  all  details. 

'  No,'  she  said,  '  not  here.  There's  Nelly  watching 
us,  and  Maud  has  just  been  told.  Betty's  been 
shifted,  I  know,  and  I  suppose  Mary  and  Jennie  are 
gone,  iDut  there's  the  manageress  and  some  of  the 
girls  upstairs.  I've  nearly  done.  Let  me  return  the 
invitation.  Dine  with  me  to-night  .  .  .'  She  was 
going  to  say  '  at  home, '  but  changed  her  mind  to  the 
prudent  course.  .  .  .  '  at,  well,  anywhere  you  like 
Whereabouts  do  you  live,  Mr  Farwell? ' 

'I  live  in  the  Waterloo  Road,'  said  Farwell,  'an 
artery  named  after  the  playing  fields  of  Eton.' 

'I  don't  know  it  well,'  said  Victoria,  'but  I  seem 
to  remember  an  Italian  place  near  Waterloo  Station. 
Suppose  you  meet  me  at  the  south  end  of  Waterloo 
Bridge  at  seven  ?  ' 

'It  will  do  admirably,'  said  the  man.  'I  suppose 
you  want  to  go  now?  Well,  you've  put  out  my 
habits,  but  I'll  come  too.' 

They  went  out ;  the  last  Victoria  saw  of  the  P.R.R. 
was  the  face  of  the  cook  through  the  hole  in  the 
partition,  red,  sweating,  wrinkled  by  the  heat  and 
hurry  of  the  day.  They  parted  in  the  churchyard. 
Victoria  watched  him  walk  away  with  his  firm  swing, 
his  head  erect. 

'  A  man,'  she  thought,  '  too  clever  to  succeed.' 

Being  now  again  at  a  loose  end  and  still  feeling 
fairly  hungry,  she  drove  down  to  Frascati's  to  lunch. 
She  was  a  healthy  young  animal,  and  scanty  fare  was 
now  a  novelty.  At  three  o'clock  she  decided  to  look 
up  Betty  at  her  depot  in  Holborn  ;  and  by  great  good 
luck  found  that  Betty  was  free  at  half  past  five,  as 
the  Holborn  depot  for  unknown  reasons  kept 
shorter  hours  than  Moorgate  Street.  She  whiled 
away  the  intervening  time  easily  enough  by  shop- 
gazing  and  writing  a  long  letter  to  Cairns  on 
the  hospitable  paper  of  the  Grand  Hotel.  At 
B 


as8  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

half-past  five  she  picked  up  Betty  at  the  door  of 
the  P.R.R. 

'Thank  you  again  so  very,  very  much  for  the 
sweater  and  the  dressing  gown,'  said  Betty  as  she 
slipped  her  arm  through  that  of  her  friend. 

'Don't  be  silly,  Betty,  I  like  giving  you  things.' 
Victoria  smiled  and  pressed  the  girl's  arm.  *  You're 
not  looking  well,  Betty.' 

'  Oh,  I'm  all  right,'  said  Betty  wearily. 

Victoria  looked  at  her  again.  Under  the  pretty 
waved  sandy  hair  Betty's  forehead  looked  waxen; 
her  cheeks  were  too  red.  Her  arm  felt  thinner  than 
ever.  What  was  one  to  do  ?  Betty  was  a  weakling 
and  must  go  to  the  wall.  But  there  was  a  sweetness 
in  her  which  no  one  could  resist. 

*  Look  here,  Betty,'  said  Victoria,  *  I've  got  very 
little  time  ;  I've  got  to  meet  Mr  Farwell  at  Waterloo 
Bridge  at  seven.  It's  beautifully  fine,  let's  drive 
down  to  Embankment  Gardens  and  talk.' 

Betty's  face  clouded  for  a  moment  at  the  mention 
of  Farwell's  name.  She  hated  him  with  the  ferocity 
of  the  weak ;  he  had  ruined  her  friend.  But  it  was 
good  to  have  her  back.  The  cab  drove  down 
Chancery  Lane  at  a  spanking  rate,  then  across  the 
Strand  and  through  a  lane.  The  unaccustomed 
pleasure  and  the  rush  of  air  brought  all  her  face 
into  pink  unison  with  her  cheeks. 

The  two  women  sat  side  by  side  for  a  moment. 
This  was  the  second  time  they  had  met  since  Victoria 
had  entered  her  new  life.  There  had  been  a  few 
letters,  the  last  to  thank  Victoria  for  her  Christmas 
present,  but  Betty  did  not  say  much  in  them. 
Her  tradition  of  virtue  had  erected  a  barrier  between 
them. 

'  Well,  Betty,'  said  Victoria  suddenly,  *  do  you  still 
think  me  very  bad  ?  ' 

*  Oh,  Vic,  how  can  you?  I  never,  never  said 
that.' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  259 

'No,  yoTi  thouglit  it,'  answered  Victoria  a  little 
cnielly.     *  But  never  mind,  perhapB  you're  right.' 

*  I  never  said  so,  never  thought  so,'  persisted  Betty. 
*You  can't  go  wrong,  Vic,  you're  .  .  .  you're 
different.' 

'  Perhaps  I  am,'  said  Victoria.  '  Perhaps  there  are 
different  laws  for  different  people.  At  any  rate  I've 
made  my  choice  and  must  abide  by  it?  ' 

'  And  are  you  happy,  Vic  ? '  Anxiety  was  in  the 
girl's  face. 

*  Happy  ?     Oh,  happy  enough.    He's  a  good  sort.' 
'I'm  so   glad.     And  .  .  .  Vic  ...  do  you  think 

he'll  marry  you  ?  ' 

'  Marry  me  ? '  said  Victoria  laughing.  '  You  little 
goose,  of  course  not.  Why  should  he  marry  me  now 
he's  got  me  ? ' 

This  was  a  new  idea  for  Betty. 

'But  doesn't  he  love  you  very,  very  much?' 
she  asked,  her  blue  eyes  growing  roimder  and 
rounder. 

*  I  suppose  he  does  in  a  way,'  said  Victoria.  '  But 
it  doesn't  matter.  He's  very  kind  to  me  but  he 
won't  marry  me;  and,  honestly,  I  wouldn't  marry 
him.' 

Betty  looked  at  her  amazed  and  a  little  shocked. 

'But,  dear,'  she  faltered,  'think  of  what  it  would 
mean  ;  you  ...  he  and  you,  you  see  .  .  .  you're 
living  like  that  ...  if  he  married  you  .  .  .' 

'Yes,  I  see,'  said  Victoria  with  a  slight  sneer, 
'you  mean  that  I  should  be  an  honest  woman  and 
all  that?  My  dear  child,  you  don't  understand. 
Whether  he  marries  me  or  not  it's  all  the  same.  So 
long  as  a  woman  is  economically  dependent  on  a 
man  she's  a  slave,  a  plaything.  Legally  or  illegally 
joined  it's  exactly  the  same  thing;  the  legal  bond 
has  its  advantages  and  its  disadvantages  and  there's 
an  end  of  the  matter.' 

Betty  looked  away  over  the  Thames ;  she  did  not 


26o  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

understand.  The  tradition  was  too  strong.  Time 
went  quickly.  Betty  had  no  tale  to  unfold ;  the 
months  had  passed  leaving  her  doing  the  same  work 
for  the  same  wage,  living  in  the  same  room.  Before 
her  was  the  horizon  on  which  were  outlined  two  ships ; 

*  ten  hours  a  day '  and  *  eight  bob  a  week.'  And 
the  skyline  ? 

As  they  parted,  Victoria  made  Betty  promise  to  come 
and  see  her.  Then  they  kissed  twice,  gently  and 
silently,  and  Victoria  watched  her  friend's  slim  figure 
fade  out  of  sight  as  she  walked  away.  She  had  the 
same  impression  as  when  she  parted  with  Lottie,  who 
had  gone  so  bravely  into  the  dark.  A  wave  of 
melancholy  was  upon  her.  Poor  girls,  they  were 
without  hope  ;  she  at  least  was  viewing  life  with  her 
eyes  open.  She  would  wrench  something  out  of  it 
yet.     She  shook  herself ;  it  was  a  quarter  to  seven. 

An  hour  later  she  was  sitting  opposite  Farwell. 
They  were  getting  to  the  end  of  dinner.  Conversa- 
tion had  flagged  while  they  disposed  of  the  earlier 
courses.  Now  they  were  at  the  ice  and  coffee  stage. 
The  waiters  grew  less  attentive ;  indeed  there  was 
nobody  to  observe  them  save  the  olive-skinned  boy 
with  the  mournful  eyes  who  looked  at  the  harbour  of 
Palermo  through  the  Waterloo  Road  door.  Farwell 
lit  the  cigar  which  Victoria  forced  upon  him,  and  leant 
back,  puffing  contentedly. 

'Well,'  he  said  at  length,  'how  do  you  like  the 
life?' 

'  It  is  better  than  the  old  one,'  she  said. 

*  Oh,  so  you've  come  to  that.  You  have  given  up 
the  absolutes.' 

'Yes,  I've  given  them  up.  A  woman  like  me 
has  to.' 

'  Yes,  I  suppose  you've  got  to,'  pondered  Farwell. 

*  But  apart  from  that,  is  it  a  success  ?  Are  you 
attaining  your  end?  That's  the  only  thing  that 
matters,  you  know.' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  261 

*  I  am,  in  a  sense ;  I'm  saving  money.  You  see, 
he's  generous.' 

*  Excellent,  excellent,'  sneered  Farwell.  *  I  like  to 
see  you  making  out  of  what  the  bourgeois  call  vice 
that  which  will  enable  you  to  command  bourgeois 
respect.  By-and-by  I  suppose  you'll  have  made 
a  fortune.' 

'  Well,  no ;  a  competency  perhaps,  with  luck.' 
'  With  luck,  as  you  say.  Do  you  know,  Victoria, 
this  luck  business  is  grand  !  My  firm  goes  in  for 
mines:  they  went  prospecting  in  America  twenty 
years  ago  and  they  happened  to  strike  copper.  That 
was  good.  Other  men  struck  granite  only.  That 
was  bad.  But  my  boss  is  a  City  Sheriff  now.  Fright- 
fully rich.  There  used  to  be  four  of  them,  but  one 
died  of  copper  poisoning,  and  another  was  found  shot 
in  a  gulch.  Nobody  knows  how  it  happened,  but  the 
other  two  got  the  mines.' 

Victoria  smiled.     She  liked  this  piratical  tit  bit. 

*  Yes,'  she  said,  *  luck's  the  thing.  And  merit  .  .  . 
well  I  suppose  the  surviving  partners  had  merit.' 

*  Anyhow,  I  wish  you  luck,'  said  Farwell.  *  But 
tell  me  more.  Do  you  find  you've  paid  too  high  a 
price  for  what  you've  got  ? ' 

'  Too  high  a  price  ?  ' 

*  Yes.  Do  you  have  any  of  that  remorse  we  read 
about ;  would  you  like  to  be  what  you  were  ?  Unattached, 
you  know  .  .  .  eligible  for  Young  Women's  Christian 
Associations  ?  * 

*  Oh,  no,'  Victoria  laughed.  '  I  can't  pay  too  high 
a  price  for  what  I  think  I'll  get.  I  don't  mean  these 
jewels  or  these  clothes,  that's  only  my  professional 
uniform.  When  I've  served  my  time  I  shall  get  that 
for  which  no  woman  can  pay  too  much :  I  shall  be 
economically  independent,  free.' 

'  Free.'  Farwell  looked  towards  the  ceiling  through 
a  cloudlet  of  smoke.  *  Yes,  you're  right.  With  the 
world  as  it  is  it's  the  only  way.     To  be  independent 


263  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

you  must  acquire  the  right  to  be  dependent  on  the 
world's  labour,  to  be  a  drone  .  .  .  and  the  biggest 
drone  is  queen  of  the  hive.  Yet  I  wish  it  had  been 
otherwise  with  you.'     He  looked  at  her  regretfully. 

Victoria  toyed  with  a  dessert  knife. 

'  Why  ? '  she  asked. 

*  Oh,  you  had  possibilities  .  .  .  but  after  all,  we  all 
have.  And  most  of  them  turn  out  to  be  impossibilities. 
At  any  rate,  you're  not  disgusted  with  you're  Hfe,  with 
any  detail  ? ' 

*  No,  I  don't  think  so.  I  don't  say  I'll  go  on  any 
longer  than  I  need,  but  it's  bearable.  But  even  if 
it  were  repulsive  in  every  way  I'd  go  on  if  I  saw 
freedom  ahead.  If  I  fight  at  all  I  fight  to  a 
finish.' 

'You're  strong,'  said  Farwell  looking  at  her.  'I 
wish  I  had  your  strength.  You've  got  that  force 
which  makes  explorers,  founders  of  new  faiths, 
prophets,  company  promoters.'     He  sighed. 

*  Let's  go,'  he  added,  *  we  can  talk  in  the  warm 
night.' 

For  an  hour  they  talked,  agreeing  always  in  the 
end.  Farwell  was  cruelly  conscious  of  two  wasted 
lives  :  his,  because  his  principles  and  his  capacity  for 
thought  had  no  counterweight  in  a  capacity  for  action ; 
Victoria's,  because  of  her  splendid  gifts  ignobly 
wasted  and  misused  by  a  world  which  had  asked  her 
for  the  least  of  them. 

Victoria  felt  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  this  man's 
society.  He  was  elderly,  ugly,  ill-clad ;  sometimes  he 
was  boorish,  but  a  halo  of  thought  surrounded  him, 
and  the  least  of  his  words  seemed  precious.  All  this 
devirilised  him,  deprived  him  of  physical  attractive- 
ness. She  could  not  imagine  herself  receiving  and 
returning  his  caresses.  They  parted  on  Waterloo 
Bridge. 

*  Good-bye,'  said  Farwell,  *  you're  on  the  right 
track.     The  time  hasn't  come  for  us  to  keep  the  law, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  263 

for  we  don't  know  what  the  law  is.  All  we  have  is 
the  edict  of  the  powerful,  the  prejudice  of  the  fool  ; 
the  last  especially,  for  these  goaled  souls  have  their 
traditions,  and  their  convictions  are  prisons  all.' 

Victoria  pressed  his  hand  and  turned  away.  She 
did  not  look  back.  If  she  had  she  would  have  seen 
Farwell  looking  into  the  Thames,  his  face  lit  up  by  a 
gas  lamp,  curiously  speculative  in  expression.  His 
emotions  were  not  warring,  but  the  chaos  in  his 
brain  was  such  that  he  was  fighting  the  logical  case 
for  and  against  an  attempt  to  find  enlightenment  on 
the  other  slope  of  the  valley. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Victoria  stretched  herself  lazily  in  bed.  Her  eyes 
took  in  a  picture  of  Cairns  on  the  mantelpiece  framed 
between  a  bottle  of  eau-de-cologne  and  the  carriage 
clock ;  then,  little  by  little,  she  analysed  details, 
small  objects,  powderpuffs,  a  Chelsea  candlestick,  an 
open  letter,  the  wall  paper.  She  closed  her  eyes 
again  and  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow.  The  lace 
edge  tickled  her  ear  pleasantly.  She  snuggled  like  a 
stroked  cat.  Then  she  awoke  again,  for  Mary  had 
just  placed  her  early  cup  of  tea  on  the  night  table. 
The  tray  seemed  to  come  down  with  a  crash,  a  spoon 
fell  on  the  carpet.  Victoria  felt  daylight  rolling 
back  sleep  from  her  brain  while  Mary  pulled  up  the 
blinds.  As  light  flooded  the  room  and  her  senses 
became  keener  she  heard  the  blinds  clash. 

*  You're  very  noisy,  Mary,'  she  said,  lifting  herself 
on  one  elbow. 

The  girl  came  back  to  the  bed  her  hands  folded 
together. 

*  I'm  sorry,  mum  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  I've  .  .  .' 

*  Yes  ?  what's  the  matter  ?  ' 

Mary  did  not  answer,  but  Victoria  could  see  she 
was  disturbed.  Her  cap  was  disaiTanged  ;  it  inclined 
perhaps  five  degrees  from  the  vertical.  There  was  a 
faint  flush  on  her  cheeks. 

*  What's  the  matter  ? '  said  Victoria  sharply.  '  Is 
there  anything  wrong  ?  ' 

*  No,  mum.  .  .  .  Yes  mum.  .  .  .  They  say  in  the 
paper  ....  There's  been  trouble  in  Ireland,  miun.  .  .  .* 

264 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  265 

'In  Ireland?'  Victoria  sat  bolt  npriglit.  Her 
heart  gave  a  great  bang  and  then  began  to  go  with  a 
whirr. 

'  At  Rossbantry,  mum  .  .  .  last  night  .  .  .  he's 
shot.  .   .  .' 

*  Shot  ?     Who  ?  can't  you  speak  ? ' 

'  The  Major,  mum.' 

Mary  unfolded  her  hands  suddenly  and  drew  them 
up  and  down  her  apron  as  if  trying  to  dry  them. 
Victoria  sat  as  if  frozen,  looking  at  her  wide-eyed. 
Then  she  relapsed  on  the  pillow.  Everything  swam 
for  a  second,  then  she  felt  Mary  raising  her  head. 

'  Go  away,'  whispered  Victoria.  *  Leave  me  for  a 
minute.     I'm  all  right.' 

Mary  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  obeyed,  softly 
closing  the  door.  Victoria  lay  staring  at  the  ceiling. 
Cairns  was  dead,  shot.  Awful.  A  week  ago  his 
heavy  frame  was  outlined  under  these  very  blankets. 
She  shuddered.  But  why,  how?  It  wasn't  true,  it 
couldn't  be  true.  She  sat  up  as  if  impelled  by  a 
spring,  and  rang  the  bell  violently.  The  broken  rope 
fell  on  her  face  in  a  coil.  With  both  hands  she  seized 
her  chin  as  if  to  stop  a  scream. 

'  The  paper !  get  me  the  paper ! '  she  gasped  as 
Mary  came  in.  The  girl  hesitated.  Victoria's  face 
fi'ightened  her.  Victoria  looked  at  her  straight,  and 
she  ran  out  of  the  room.  In  another  minute  she  had 
laid  the  open  paper  before  her  mistress. 

Victoria  clutched  at  it  with  both  hands.  It  was 
true.  True,  It  was  true.  The  headlines  were  all 
she  could  see.  She  tried  to  read  the  text,  but  the 
letters  danced.     She  returned  to  the  headlines. 

Shocking  Outrage  in  Ireland 


Landlord  Shot 

In  the  next  column : — 

M.  C.  C.'s  Hard  Task 


266  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Her  heart's  action  was  less  violent  now.  Slie  under- 
stood ;  every  second  increased  her  lucidity.  Shot, 
Cairns  was  shot.  Oh,  she  knew,  he  had  carried  strife 
with  him  and  some  tenant  had  had  his  revenge.  She 
took  up  the  paper  and  could  read  it  now.  Cairns  had 
refused  to  make  terms,  and  on  the  morning  of  his 
death  had  served  notices  of  eviction  on  eigheen 
cottagers.  The  same  night  he  was  sitting  at  a 
window  of  his  bailiff's  house.  Then  two  shots  from 
the  other  side  of  the  road,  another  from  lower  down. 
Cairns  was  wounded  twice,  in  the  lung  and  throat, 
and  died  within  twenty  minutes.  A  man  was  under 
arrest. 

Victoria  put  down  the  paper.  Her  mind  was  quite 
clear  again.  Poor  old  Tom !  She  felt  sorry  but  above 
all  disturbed ;  every  nerve  in  her  body  seemed  raw. 
Poor  old  Tom,  a  good  fellow !  He  had  been  kind  to 
her;  and  now,  there  he  was.  Dead  when  he  was 
thinking  of  coming  back  to  her.  He  would  never 
see  her  again,  the  little  house  and  things  he  loved. 
Yes,  he  had  been  kind ;  he  had  saved  her  from  that 
awful  life  ....  Victoria's  thoughts  turned  into 
another  channel.    What  was  going  to  become  of  her. 

*  Old  girl,'  she  said  aloud,  'you're  in  the  cart.' 

She  realised  that  she  was  again  adrift,  alone,  face 
to  face  with  the  terrible  world.  Cairns  was  gone  ; 
there  was  nobody  to  protect  her  against  the  buffeting 
waves.  A  milkman's  cart  rattled  by ;  she  could  hear 
the  distant  rumble  of  the  Undergi'ound,  a  snatch 
carried  by  the  wind  from  a  German  band.  Well, 
the  time  had  come ;  it  had  to  come.  She  could  not 
have  held  Cairns  for  ever  ;  and  now  she  had  to  prove 
her  mettle,  to  show  whether  she  had  learned  enough 
of  the  world,  whether  she  had  grit.  The  thought 
struck  cold  at  her,  but  an  intimate  coxmseller  in  her 
brain  was  already  awake  and  crying  out : 

*  Yes,  yes,  go  on  !  you  can  do  it  yet.' 

Victoria  threw  down  the  paper  and  jumped  out 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  267 

of  bed.  She  dressed  feverislily  in  the  clothes  and 
linen  she  had  thrown  in  a  heap  on  a  chair  the  night 
before,  twisting  her  hair  up  into  a  rough  coil.  Just 
before  leaving  the  room  she  remembered  she  had 
not  even  washed  her  hands.  She  did  so  hurriedly ; 
then,  seeing  the  cold  cup  of  tea,  drank  it  off  at  a 
gulp  ;  her  throat  felt  parched. 

She  pushed  back  the  untasted  dish  on  the  breakfast 
table.  Her  head  between  her  hands,  she  tried  to 
think.  At  intervals  she  poured  out  cups  of  tea  and 
di-ank  them  off  quickly. 

Snoo  and  Poo,  after  vainly  tiying  to  induce  her  to 
play  with  them,  lay  in  a  heap  in  an  armchair  snuffling 
as  they  slept. 

The  better  she  realised  her  position  the  greater 
grew  her  fears.  Once  more  she  was  the  cork  tossed 
in  the  storm ;  and  yet,  rudderless,  she  must  navigate 
into  the  harbour  of  liberty.  If  Cairns  had  lived  and 
she  had  seen  her  power  over  him  wane,  she  would  have 
taken  steps ;  she  did  not  know  what  steps,  but  felt  she 
surely  would  have  done  something.  But  Cairns  was 
dead  ;  in  twenty  minutes  she  had  passed  from  com- 
parative security  into  the  region  where  thorns  are 
many  and  roses  few. 

Poor  old  Tom  !  She  felt  a  tiny  pang  ;  surely  this 
concern  with  herself  when  his  body  still  lay  unburied 
was  selfish,  ugly.  But,  pooh !  why  make  any  bones 
about  it?  As  Cairns  had  said  himself,  he  liked  to 
see  her  beautiful,  happy,  well  clad.  His  gifts  to  her 
were  gifts  to  himself  :  she  was  merely  his  vicar. 

Victoria  drank  some  more  cold  tea.  Good  or  bad, 
Cairns  belonged  to  the  past  and  the  past  has  no 
virtues.  None,  at  any  rate,  for  those  whose  present 
is  a  wind-swept  table-land.  Men  must  come  and  go, 
drink  to  the  full  of  the  cup  and  pay  richly  for  every 
sip,  so  that  she  might  be  free,  hold  it  no  longer  to 
their  lips.  There  was  no  time  to  waste,  for  already 
she  was  some  hours  older ;  some  of  those  hours  which 


36S  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

might  have  been  transmuted  into  gold,  that  saving 
gold.     She  must  take  steps. 

The  'steps  to  be  taken,'  a  comforting  sentence, 
were  not  easy  to  evolve.  But  another  comforting 
catch  ward,  *  reviewing  the  situation,'  saved  her  from 
perplexity.  She  went  into  the  little  boudoir  and  took 
out  her  two  pass  books.  The  balance  seemed  agree- 
ably fat,  but  she  did  not  allow  herself  to  be  deluded  ; 
she  checked  off  the  debit  side  with  the  foils  of  her 
cheque  book  and  found  that  two  of  the  cheques  had 
not  been  presented.  These  she  deducted,  but  the 
result  was  not  unsatisfactory ;  she  had  exactly  three 
hundred  pounds  in  one  bank  and  a  few  shillings 
over  fifty  pounds  in  the  other.  Three  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds.  Not  so  bad.  She  had  done  pretty  well 
in  these  nine  months.  Of  course  that  banker's  order 
of  Cairns  would  be  stopped.  She  could  hardly  expect 
the  executors  to  allow  it  to  stand.  Thus  her  capital 
was  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  And  there  was 
jewellery  too,  worth  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds, 
perhaps,  and  lace,  and  furs.  The  jewellery  might 
come  in  handy ;  it  could  be  *  gophirised.'  The 
furniture  wasn't  bad  either. 

Of  course  she  must  go  on  with  the  house.  It  was 
no  great  responsibility,  being  held  on  a  yearly  agi*ee- 
ment.  Victoria  then  looked  through  her  accounts; 
they  did  not  amount  to  much,  for  Barbezan  Soeurs, 
though  willing  to  assist  in  extracting  money  by  means 
of  bogus  invoices,  made  it  a  rule  to  demand  cash  for 
genuine  purchases.  Twenty  pounds  would  cover  all 
the  small  accounts.  The  rent  was  all  right,  as  it 
would  not  be  due  until  the  end  of  September.  The 
rates  were  all  right  too,  being  payable  every  half 
year;  they  could  be  ignored  until  the  blue  notice 
came,  just  before  Christmas. 

Victoria  felt  considerably  strengthened  by  this 
investigation.  At  a  pinch  she  could  live  a  year  on 
the  present  footing,  during  which  something  must 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  269 

turn  up.  She  tried  to  consider  for  a  moment  the 
various  things  that  might  turn  up.  None  occurred 
to  her.  She  settled  the  difficulty  by  going  upstairs 
again  to  dress.  When  she  rang  for  Mary  to  do  her 
hair,  the  girl  was  surprised  to  find  her  mistress 
perfectly  cool.  Without  a  word,  however,  Mary 
restored  her  hair  to  order.  It  was  a  beautiful  and 
elegant  woman,  perhaps  a  trifle  pale  and  open 
mouthed,  who,  some  minutes  later,  set  out  to  walk  to 
Regent's  Park. 

Victoria  sat  back  in  her  chair.  Peace  was  upon 
her  soul.  Perhaps  she  had  just  passed  through 
a  crisis,  perhaps  she  was  entering  upon  one,  but 
what  did  it  matter  ?  The  warmth  of  July  was  in 
the  clear  air,  the  canal  slowly  carried  past  her  its 
film  of  dust.  No  sound  broke  through  the  morning ; 
save  the  cries  of  little  boys  fishing  for  invisible  fishes, 
and,  occasionally,  a  raucous  roar  from  some  prisoner 
in  the  Zoo.  Now  that  she  had  received  the  blow  and 
was  recovering  she  was  conscious  of  a  curious  feeling 
of  lightness;  she  felt  freer  than  the  day  before. 
Then  she  was  a  man's  property,  tied  to  him  by  the 
bond  of  interest ;  now  she  was  able  to  do  what  she 
chose,  know  whom  she  chose,  so  long  as  that  money 
lasted.  Ah,  it  would  be  good  one  day  when  she  had 
enough  money  to  be  able  to  look  the  future  in  the 
face  and  flaunt  in  its  forbidding  countenance  the 
fact  that  she  was  free,  for  ever  free. 

Victoria  was  no  longer  a  dreamer;  she  was  a 
woman  of  action.  The  natural  sequence  of  her 
thoughts  brought  her  up  at  once  against  the  means 
to  the  triumphant  end.  Three  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  say  six  hundred  if  she  realised  everything, 
would  not  yield  enough  to  feed  a  superannuated 
governess.  She  would  need  quite  eight  or  ten 
thousand  pounds  before  she  could  call  herseK  free 
and  live  her  dreams. 

'  I'll  earn  it,'  she  said  aloud,  '  yes,  sure  enough.' 


210  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

A  little  Aberdeen  terrier  came  bounding  up  to 
her,  licked  her  hand  and  ran  away  after  his  master. 
A  friendly  omen.  Six  hundred  pounds  was  a  large 
sum  in  a  way.  She  could  aspire  to  a  partnership  in 
some  business  now.  A  vision  arose  before  her; 
Victoria  Ferris,  milliner.  The  vision  grew  ;  Victoria 
Ferris  and  Co.,  Limited,  wholesalers ;  then  Ferris' 
Stores,  for  clothes  and  boots  and  cheese  and  phono- 
graphs, with  a  branch  of  Cook's  agency,  a  Keith 
Prowse  ticket  office ;  Ferris'  Stores  as  an  octopus, 
with  its  body  in  Knightsbridge  and  a  tentacle  hovering 
over  every  draper  from  Richmond  to  Highgate. 

Yes,  that  was  all  very  well,  but  what  if  Victoria 
Ferris  failed  ?  *  No  good,'  she  thought,  '  I  can't 
afford  to  take  risks.'  Of  course  the  idea  of  seeking 
employment  was  absurd.  No  more  ten  hours  a  day 
for  eight  bob  a  week  for  her.  Besides,  no  continuous 
references  and  a  game  leg  .  .  .  The  situations 
crowded  into  and  out  of  Victoria's  brain  like  dis- 
solving views.  She  could  see  herself  in  the  little 
house,  with  another  man,  with  other  men,  young 
men,  old  men ;  and  every  one  of  them  was  rocked 
in  the  lap  of  Delilah,  who  laughingly  shore  off  their 
golden  locks. 

*  By  Jove,'  she  said  aloud,  bringing  her  gloved  fist 
down  on  her  knee,  'I'll  do  it.' 

Of  course  the  old  life  could  not  begin  again  just 
now.  She  did  not  know  a  man  in  London  who  was 
worth  capturing.  She  must  go  down  into  the  market, 
stand  against  the  wall  as  a  courtesan  of  Alexandria 
and  nail  a  wreath  of  roses  against  the  highest  bid. 
The  vision  she  saw  was  now  no  longer  the  octopus. 
She  saw  a  street  with  its  pavements  wet  and  slithering, 
flares,  barrows  laden  with  greens ;  she  could  smell 
frying  fish,  rotting  vegetables,  burning  naptha ;  a 
hand  opened  the  door  of  a  bar  and,  in  the  glare,  she 
could  see  two  women  with  vivid  hair,  tired  eyes, 
smiling  mouths,  each  one  patiently  waiting  before  a 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  371 

little  table  and  an  empty  glass.  Then  she  saw  once 
more  the  courtesan  of  Alexandria,  dim  in  the  night, 
not  lit  up  by  the  sun  of  sweet  Egypt,  but  clad  in 
mercerised  cotton  and  rabbit's  fur,  standing,  watching 
like  a  shadow  against  a  shop  door  in  Regent  Street. 

No,  she  had  not  come  to  that.  She  belonged  to  the 
upper  stratum  of  the  profession,  and,  knowing  it, 
could  not  sink.  Consciousness  was  the  thing.  She 
was  not  going  into  this  fight  soft-handed  or  soft- 
hearted. She  knew.  There  was  high  adventure  in 
store  for  her  yet.  If  she  must  fish  it  should  be  for 
trout  not  chub.  Like  a  wise  woman,  she  would  not 
love  lightly,  but  where  money  is.  There  should  be 
no  waiting,  no  hesitating.  That  very  night  she 
would  sup  at  the  Hotel  Vesuvius  ...  all  in  black 
.  .  .  like  an  ivory  Madonna  set  in  ebony  .  .  .  with 
a  tea  rose  in  her  hair  as  a  foil  to  her  shoulders  .  .  . 
and  sweeping  jade  earrings  which  would  swim  like 
butterflies  in  the  heavy  hair.  Ah,  it  would  be  high 
adventure  when  Demetrious  knelt  at  the  feet  of 
Aphrodite  with  jewels  in  his  sunburnt  palm,  when 
Croesus  bargained  away  for  a  smile  a  half  of  his 
Lydian  wealth. 

She  got  up,  a  glow  in  her  veins  as  if  the  lust  of 
battle  was  upon  her.  Quickly  she  walked  out  of  the 
park  to  conquer  the  town.  A  few  yards  beyond  the 
gates  newspaper  placards  shouted  the  sensation  of  the 
day ;  placards  pink,  brown,  green,  all  telling  the  tale 
of  murder,  advertising  for  a  penny  the  transitory  joy 
of  the  fact.  Victoria  smiled  and  walked  on.  She  let 
herself  into  the  house.  It  was  on  the  stroke  of  one. 
She  sat  down  at  the  table,  pressing  the  bell  down  with 
her  foot. 

'  Hurry  up,  Mary,'  she  said,  '  I'm  as  hungry  as  a 
hunter.' 

A  voice  floated  through  the  window  like  an  echo : 
'Irish  murder  ;  latest  details.' 

'  Shut  the  window,  Mary,'  she  said  sharply. 


CHAPTER  Vn 

The  Hotel  Vesuvius  is  a  singular  place.  It  stands  on 
the  north  side  of  Piccadilly,  and  for  the  general  its 
stuccoed  front  and  severe  sash  windows  breathe  an 
air  of  early  Victorian  respectability.  Probably  it  was 
once  a  ducal  mansion,  for  it  has  all  the  necessary 
ugliness,  solidity  and  size  ;  now  it  is  the  most  remark- 
able instance  of  what  can  be  done  by  a  proprietor 
who  remembers  that  an  address  in  Piccadilly  exempts 
him  from  the  rules  which  govern  Bloom  sbury.  One 
enters  it  through  a  small  hall  aU  alight  with  white 
and  gold  paint.  Right  and  left  are  the  saloon  bar 
and  the  buffet ;  this  enables  the  customer  to  select 
either  without  altering  the  character  of  his  accom- 
modation, while  assuming  superiority  for  a  judicious 
choice.  A  broad  straight  staircase  leads  up  to  the 
big  supper  room  on  the  first  floor.  Above  are  a  score 
of  private  dining-rooms. 

Victoria  jumped  out  of  the  cab  and  walked  up  the 
steps,  handing  the  liveried  commissionaire  two  shillings 
to  pay  the  cabman.  This  was  an  inspiration  calculated 
to  set  her  down  at  once  with  the  staff  as  one  who  knew 
the  ropes.  In  the  white  and  gold  hall  she  halted  for 
a  moment,  puzzled  and  rather  nervous.  She  had 
never  set  foot  in  the  Vesuvius ;  she  had  never  heard 
it  mentioned  without  a  smile  or  a  wink.  Now,  a  little 
flushed  and  her  heart  beating,  she  realised  that  she 
did  not  know  her  way  about. 

Victoria  need  have  had  no  fears.  Before  she  had 
time  to  take  in  the  scene,  a  tall  man  with  a  perfectly 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  273 

groomed  head  and  a  well  fitting  evening  dress  bowed 
low  before  her. 

*  Madame  wishes  no  doubt  to  deposit  her  wrap,'  he 
said  in  gentle  tones.  Hjs  teeth  flashed  white  for  a 
moment. 

'Yes,'  said  Victoria,  .  .  .  'Yes,  where  is  the  cloak 
room  ? ' 

'  This  way,  madame.  If  madame  will  permit 
me.  .  .  .'  He  pointed  towards  the  end  of  the  hall 
and  preceded  her  steps.  An  elderly  woman  behind 
the  counter  received  Victoria's  wrap  and  handed  her 
a  brass  token  without  looking  at  her.  While  she 
pulled  up  her  gloves  she  looked  round  curiously. 
The  cloak  room  was  small ;  behind  the  counter  the 
walls  were  covered  by  a  mahogany  rack  with  some 
hundred  pigeon-holes.  The  fiercer  light  of  an  un- 
shaded chandelier  beat  down  upon  the  centre  of  the 
room.  Victoria  was  conscious  of  an  extraordinary 
atmosphere,  a  blend  of  many  scents,  tobacco  smoke, 
leather ;  most  of  the  pigeon-holes  were  bursting  with 
coloured  wraps,  many  of  them  vivid  blue  or  red ; 
here  and  there  long  veils,  soiled  white  gloves  hung 
out  of  them ;  a  purple  ostrich  feather  hung  from  an 
immense  black  hat  over  a  white  and  silver  Cingalese 
shawl.  Victoria  turned  sharply.  The  man  was 
inspecting  her  coolly  with  an  air  of  intentness  that 
showed  approval. 

'  Where  does  madame  wish  to  go  ?  '  he  asked  as  they 
entered  the  haU.     *  In  the  buffet  perhaps  ? ' 

He  opened  the  door.  Victoria  saw  for  a  second  a 
long  counter  laden  with  bottles,  at  which  stood  a  group 
of  men,  some  in  evening  dress,  some  in  tweed  suits ; 
she  saw  a  few  women  among  them,  all  with  smiles 
upon  their  faces.  Behind  the  counter  she  had  time 
to  see  the  barmaid,  a  beautiful  girl  with  dark  eyes 
and  vivid  yellow  hair. 

'  No,  not  there,'  she  said  quickly.  It  reminded  her 
of  the  terrible  little  bar  of  which  Farwell  had  given 
8 


iU  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

her  a  glimpse.     *  You  are  the  manager,  I  believe  .  .  • 
I  want  to  go  up  into  the  supper  room.' 

*  Certainly,  madame ;  will  madame  come  this 
way?* 

The  manager  preceded  her  up  to  the  first  floor. 
On  the  landing,  two  men  in  tweeds  suddenly  stopped 
talking  as  she  passed.  A  porter  flung  the  glazed 
door  open.  A  short  man  in  evening  dress  looked  at 
her,  then  at  the  manager.  After  a  second's  hesitation 
the  two  men  in  tweeds  followed  her  in. 

The  manager  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
walked  up  to  the  other  man  and  nodded  towards  the 
door. 

*  Pas  mat,  Jiein  9 ' 

'  Epatante,^  said  the  short  man.  *  Du  chic,  Et  une 
peau  ! ' 

The  manager  smiled  and  turned  to  go  downstairs. 
*  Surveillez  moi  fa  Anatolej'  he  said. 

Victoria,  meanwhile,  had  stopped  for  a  moment  on 
the  threshold,  a  little  dazed  by  the  scene.  Though 
it  was  only  half-past  ten,  the  eighty  tables  of  the 
Vesuvius  were  almost  every  one  occupied ;  the  crowd 
looked  at  first  like  a  patchwork  quilt.  The  room 
was  all  white  and  gold  like  the  hall ;  a  soft  radiance 
fell  from  the  lights  hidden  in  the  cornice  ;  two  heavy 
chandeliers  with  faintly  pink  electric  bulbs  and  a  few 
pink  shaded  lights  on  the  table  diffused  a  roseate 
glow  over  the  scene.  Victoria  felt  like  an  intruder, 
and  her  discomfiture  was  heightened  by  the  gripping 
hot  perfume.  But  already  a  waiter  was  by  her  side ; 
she  let  him  be  her  pilot.  In  a  few  seconds  she  found 
herself  sitting  at  a  small  table  alone,  near  the  middle 
of  the  room.  The  waiter  reappeared  almost  at  once 
carrying  on  a  tray  a  liqueur  glass  containing  some 
colourless  fluid.  She  had  ordered  nothing,  but  his 
adroitness  relieved  her.  Clearly  the  expert  had 
divined  her  inexperience  and  had  resolved  to  smooth 
her  way. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  275 

She  lifted  the  glass  to  her  lips  and  sipped  at  it. 
It  was  good  stuff,  rather  strong.  The  bum  on  her 
palate  seemed  to  brace  her ;  she  looked  round  the 
room.  It  was  a  peculiar  scene  ;  for  the  Vesuvius  is 
a  luxurious  place,  and  a  provincial  might  well  be 
excused  for  thinking  it  was  the  Carlton  or  the  Savoy ; 
indeed  there  was  something  more  outwardly  opulent 
about  it.  It  suggested  a  place  where  men  not  only 
spent  what  they  had  but  spent  more.  But  for  a  few 
men  in  frock-coats  and  tweeds  it  would  have  been 
almost  undistinguishable  from  the  recognised  resorts 
of  fashion.  Victoria  took  stock  of  her  surroundings  ; 
of  the  shining  plate  and  glass,  the  heavy  red  carpet, 
the  red  and  gold  curtains,  drawn  but  fluttering  at 
the  open  windows.  The  guests,  however,  interested 
her  more.  At  half  the  tables  sat  a  woman  and  a 
man,  at  others  a  woman  alone  before  a  little  glass. 
What  struck  her  above  all  was  the  beauty  of  the 
women,  the  wealth  they  carried  on  their  bodies. 
Hardly  one  of  them  seemed  over  thirty  ;  most  of  them 
had  golden  or  vivid  red  hair,  though  a  few  tables  off 
Victoria  could  see  a  tall  woman  of  colour  with  black 
hair  stiffened  by  wax  and  pierced  with  massive  ivory 
combs.  They  mostly  wore  low-necked  dresses,  many 
of  them  white  or  faintly  tinted  with  blue  or  pink. 
She  could  see  a  dark  Italian-looking  girl  in  scarlet  from 
whose  ears  long  coral  earrings  drooped  to  her  slim 
cream-coloured  shoulders.  There  was  an  enormously 
stout  woman  with  puffy  pink  cheeks,  strapped  slightly 
into  a  white  silk  costume,  looking  like  a  rose  at  the 
height  of  its  bloom.  There  were  others  too !  short 
dark  women  with  tight  hair ;  minxish  French 
faces  and  little  shrewd  dark  eyes  :  florid  Dutch  and 
Belgian  women  with  massive  busts  and  splendid 
shoulders,  dazzlingly  white ;  English  girls  too,  most 
of  them  slim  with  long  arms  and  rosy  elbows  and 
faintly  outlined  collar  bones.  Many  of  these  had  the 
aristocratic    nonchalance     of     '  art '     photographs. 


a76  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Opposite  Victoria,  under  the  other  chandelier,  a 
splendid  creature,  white  as  a  lily,  with  flashing  green 
eyes,  copper  coloured  hair,  had  thi-own  herself  back 
in  her  armchair  and  was  laughing  at  a  man's  joke. 
Her  head  was  bent  back,  and  as  she  laughed  her 
splendid  bust  rose  and  fell  and  her  throat  filled 
out.  An  elderly  man  with  a  close  clipped  grey 
moustache,  immaculate  in  his  well-cut  dress  clothes, 
leaned  towards  her  with  a  smile  on  his  brown 
face. 

Victoria  turned  her  eyes  away  from  the  man,  (a 
soldier,  of  course),  and  looked  at  the  others.  They, 
too,  were  a  mixed  collection.  There  were  a  good 
many  youths,  all  clean  shaven  and  mostly  well- 
groomed  ;  these  talked  loudly  to  their  partners  and 
seemed  to  fill  the  latter  with  merriment ;  now  and 
then  they  stared  at  other  women  with  the  boldness  of 
the  shy.  There  were  elderly  men  too  ;  a  few  in  frock 
coats  in  spite  of  the  heat,  some  very  stout  and  red, 
some  bald  and  others  half  concealing  their  scalps 
under  cunning  hair  arrangements.  The  elderly  men 
sat  mostly  with  two  women,  some  with  three,  and  lay 
back  smiling  like  courted  pachas.  By  far  the  greater 
number  of  the  guests,  however,  were  anything 
between  thirty  and  forty  ;  and  seemed  to  cover  every 
type  from  the  smart  young  captain  with  the  tanned 
face,  bold  blue  eyes  and  a  bristly  moustache,  to 
ponderous  men  in  tweeds  or  blue  reefer  jackets  who 
looked  about  them  with  a  mixture  of  nervousness  and 
bovine  stolidity. 

From  every  corner  came  a  steady  stream  of  loud 
talk ;  continually  little  shrieks  of  laughter  pierced 
the  din  and  then  were  smothered  by  the  rattling  of 
the  plates.  The  waiters  flitted  ghostly  through  the 
room  with  incredible  speed,  balancing  high  their 
silver  trays.  Then  Victoria  became  conscious  that 
most  of  the  women  round  her  were  looking  at  her ; 
for  a  moment  she  felt  her  personality  shrivel  up  under 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  277 

their  gaze.  They  were  analysing  her,  speculating  as 
to  the  potentialities  of  a  new  rival,  stripping  off  her 
clothes  too  and  her  jewels.  It  was  horrible,  because 
their  look  was  more  incisive  than  the  merely  brutal 
glance  by  which  a  man  takes  stock  of  a  woman's 
charms. 

She  pulled  herself  together  however,  and  forced 
herself  to  return  the  stares.  '  After  all/  she  thought, 
*  this  is  the  baptism  of  fire.'  She  felt  strengthened, 
too,  as  she  observed  her  rivals  more  closely.  Beautiful 
as  most  of  them  seemed  at  first  sight,  many  of  them 
showed  signs  of  wear.  With  joyful  cruelty  Victoria 
noted  here  and  there  faint  wrinkles  near  their  eyes, 
relaxed  mouths,  cheekbones  on  which  rosacia  had 
already  set  its  mark.  She  could  not  see  more  than 
half  a  dozen  whose  beauty  equalled  hers ;  she  thi-ew 
her  head  up  and  drew  back  her  shoulders.  In  the 
full  light  of  the  chandelier  she  looked  down  at  the 
firm  white  shapeliness  of  her  arms. 

'  Well,  how  goes  it  ? ' 

Victoria  started  and  looked  up  from  her  contempla- 
tion. A  man  had  sat  down  at  her  table.  He  seemed 
about  thirty,  fairish,  with  a  rather  ragged  moustache. 
He  wore  a  black  morning  coat  and  a  grey  tie.  His 
hands  and  wrists  were  weU  kept  and  emerged  from 
pale  blue  cuffs.  There  was  a  not  unkindly  smile 
upon  his  face.  His  tip  tilted  nose  gave  him  a  cheer- 
ful, rather  impertinent  expression. 

*0h,  I'm  all  right,'  said  Victoria  vaguely.  Then 
with  an  affectation  of  ease.     '  Hot,  isn't  it  ?  ' 

'  Ra-ther,*  said  the  man.     '  Had  your  supper  ? ' 

'No,'  said  Victoria,  'I  don't  want  any.' 

*  Now,  come,  really  that's  too  bad  of  you.  Thought 
we  were  going  to  have  a  nice  little  family  party  and 
you're  off  your  feed.' 

'I'm  sorry,'  said  Victoria  smiling.  *I  had  dinner 
only  two  hours  ago.'  This  man  was  not  very  attrac- 
tive J  there  was  something  forced  in  his  ease, 


a78  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  Well,  have  a  drink  with  me,'  he  said. 

*  What's  yours  ? '  asked  Victoria.  That  was  an 
inspiration.  The  plunge  braced  her  like  a  cold  bath. 
The  man  laughed. 

*  Pop,  of  course.  Unless  you  prefer  a  Pernot.  You 
know  *  "  absinthe  makes  the  .  .  .  " '  He  stopped  and 
laughed  again.  Victoria  did  likewise  without 
understanding  him.  She  saw  that  the  other  women 
laughed  when  men  did. 

They  filled  their  glasses.  Victoria  liked  champagne. 
She  watched  the  little  bubbles  rise,  and  drank  the  glass 
down.  It  was  soft  and  warm.  How  strong  she  felt 
suddenly.  The  conversation  did  not  flag.  The  man 
was  leaning  towards  her  across  the  table,  talking 
quickly.    He  punctuated  every  joke  with  a  high  laugh. 

'  Oh,  I  say,  give  us  a  chance,'  floated  from  the  next 
table.  Victoria  looked.  It  was  one  of  the  English 
girls.  She  was  propped  up  on  one  elbow  on  the 
table;  her  legs  were  crossed  showing  a  long  slim 
limb  and  slender  ankle  in  a  white  open  work  stocking. 
A  man  in  evening  dress  with  a  foreign  looking  dark 
face  was  caressing  her  bare  arm. 

*  Penny  for  your  thoughts,'  said  Victoria's  man. 
'  Wasn't  thinking,'  she  said.     '  I  was  looking.' 

*  Looking  ?  are  you  new  here  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  it's  the  first  time  I've  come.' 
By    Jove !      It    must    be    an  eye-opener,'      He 
laughed. 

'It  is  rather.     It  doesn't  seem  half  bad.' 

*  You're  right  there.  I'm  an  old  stager.'  A  slightly 
complacent  expression  came  over  his  face.  He  filled 
up  the  glasses.  *  You  don't  spoil  the  collection,  you 
know,'  he  added.  '  You're  a  bit  of  all  right.'  He 
looked  at  her  approvingly. 

*  Am  I  ? '  She  looked  at  him  demurely.  Then, 
plunging  once  more,  '  I  hope  you'll  still  think  so  by 
and  by.'  The  man's  eyes  dwelled  for  a  moment  on 
lier    face    ftnd    neck,    his    breath    became    audible 


A  BED  OF  ROSES 


279 


suddenly.     She  felt  his  foot  softly  stroke  hers.     He 
drew  his  napkin  across  his  lips. 

'Well,'  he  said  with  an  assumption  of  ease,  'shall 
we  go  ? ' 

'  I  don't  mind,'  said  Victoria  getting  up. 

It  was  with  a  beating  heart  that  Victoria  climbed 
into  the  cab.  As  soon  as  he  got  in  the  man  put  his 
arm  round  her  waist  and  drew  her  to  him.  She 
resisted  gently  but  gave  way  as  his  arm  grew  more 
insistent. 

'  Coy  little  puss.'  His  face  was  very  near  her  up- 
turned eyes.  She  felt  it  come  nearer.  Then, 
suddenly,  he  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  She  wanted  to 
struggle  ;  she  was  a  little  frightened.  The  lights  of 
Piccadilly  filled  her  with  shame.  They  spoke  very 
little.  The  man  held  her  close  to  him.  As  the  cab 
rattled  through  Portland  Place,  he  seized  her  once 
more.  She  fought  down  the  repulsion  with  which  his 
breath  inspired  her  :  it  was  scented  with  strong  cigars 
and  champagne.  Victoriously  she  coiled  one  arm 
round  his  neck  and  kissed  him  on  the  mouth.  In  her 
disgust  there  was  a  blend  of  triumph ;  not  even  her 
own  feelings  could  resist  her  wiU. 

As  she  waited  on  the  doorstep  while  he  paid  the 
cabman  a  great  fear  came  upon  her.  She  did  not 
know  this  man.  Who  was  he?  Perhaps  a  thief. 
She  suddenly  remembered  that  women  of  her  kind 
were  sometimes  murdered  for  the  sake  of  their 
jewellery.  As  the  man  turned  to  come  up  the  steps 
she  pulled  herself  together.  'After  all,'  she  thought, 
'  it's  only  professional  risk.' 

They  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  hall  of  the  silent 
house.  She  felt  awkward.  The  man  looked  at  her 
and  mistook  her  hesitation. 

'  It's  all  right,'  he  faltered.  He  looked  about  him, 
then,  quickly  whipping  out  a  sovereign  purse,  he  drew 
out  two  sovereigns  with  a  click  and  laid  them  on  the 
hall  table 


28o  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  You  see,'  lie  said  *  ...  a  girl  like  you.  .  .  . 
three  more  to-morrow  morning  ....  I'm  square 
you  know.' 

Victoria  smiled  and,  after  a  second's  hesitation, 
picked  up  the  money. 

'  So'm  I,'  she  said.  Then  she  switched  on  the  light 
and  pointed  upstairs. 


CHAPTER  Vm 

Victoria's  new  career  did  not  develop  on  unkindly 
lines.  Every  night  she  went  to  the  Vesuvius,  where 
she  soon  had  her  appointed  place  full  under  one  of  the 
big  chandeliers.  She  secured  this  spot  without 
difficulty,  for  most  of  her  rivals  were  too  wise  to 
affront  the  glare ;  as  soon  as  she  realised  this  she 
rather  revelled  in  her  sense  of  power,  for  she  now 
lived  in  a  world  where  the  only  form  of  power  was 
beauty.  She  felt  sure  of  her  beauty  now  she  had 
compared  it  minutely  with  the  charms  of  the  preferred 
women.  She  was  finer,  she  had  more  breed.  Almost 
every  one  of  those  women  showed  a  trace  of  coarse- 
ness :  a  square  jaw,  not  moulded  in  big  bone  like  hers 
but  swathed  in  heavy  flesh ;  a  thick  ankle  or  wrist ; 
spatulate  fingertips  ;  red  ears.  Her  pride  was  in  the 
courage  with  which  she  welcomed  the  flow  of  the 
light  on  her  neck  and  shoulders ;  round  her  chandelier 
the  tables  formed  practically  into  circles,  the  nearest 
being  occupied  by  the  very  young  and  venturesome, 
a  few  by  the  oldest  who  desperately  clung  to  their 
illusion  of  immortal  youth  ;  then  came  the  undecided, 
those  who  are  between  ages,  who  wear  thick  veils  and 
sit  with  their  backs  to  the  light ;  the  outer  fringe 
was  made  up  of  those  who  remembered.  Their  smiles 
were  hard  and  fixed. 

She  was  fortunate  enough  too.  She  never  had  to 
sit  long  in  front  of  the  little  glass  which  she  dis- 
covered to  be  kummel ;  the  waiter  always  brought  it 
unasked.     Sometimes  they  would  chat  for  a  moment, 

•5j 


282  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

for  Victoria  was  assimilating  ths  lazy  familiarity  of 
her  surroundings.  He  talked  about  the  weather,  the 
latest  tips  for  Goodwood,  the  misfortune  of  Camille 
de  Valenciennes  who  had  gone  off  to  Carlsbad  with  a 
barber  who  said  he  was  a  Russian  prince  and  had  left 
her  there  stranded. 

Her  experiences  piled  up,  and,  after  a  few  weeks 
she  found  she  had  exhausted  most  of  the  types  who 
frequented  the  Vesuvius.  Most  of  them  were  of  the 
gawky  kind,  being  very  young  men  out  for  the  night 
and  desperately  anxious  to  get  off  on  the  quiet  by 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  of  the  gawky  kind  too 
were  the  Manchester  merchants  paying  a  brief  visit 
to  town  on  business  and  who  wanted  a  peep  into 
the  inferno ;  these  were  easily  dealt  with  and,  if 
properly  primed  with  champagne,  exceedingly 
generous.  Now  and  then  Victoria  was  confronted 
with  a  racier  type  which  tended  to  become  rather 
brutal.  It  was  recruited  largely  from  obviously 
married  men  whose  desires,  dammed  and  sterilised 
by  monotonous  relations,  seemed  suddenly  to  burst 
their  bonds. 

In  a  few  weeks  her  resources  developed  exceedingly. 
She  learned  the  scientific  look  that  awakes  a  man's 
interest:  a  droop  cf  the  eyelid  followed  by  a  slow 
raising  of  it,  a  dilation  of  the  pupil,  then  again  a 
demure  droop  and  the  suspicion  of  a  smile.  She 
learned  to  prime  herself  from  the  papers  with  the 
proper  conversation  ;  racing,  the  latest  divorce  news, 
ragging  scandals,  marriages  of  the  peerage  into  the 
chorus.  She  learned  to  laugh  at  chestnuts  and  to 
memorise  such  stories  as  sounded  fresh ;  a  few 
judicious  matinees  put  her  up  to  date  as  to  the  latest 
musical  comedies.  On  the  whole  it  was  an  easy  life 
enough.  Six  hours  in  the  twenty-four  seemed 
sufficient  to  afford  her  a  good  livelihood,  and  she  did 
not  doubt  that  by  degrees  she  would  make  herself  a 
connection,  which  might  be  turned  to  greater  ad  van- 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  283 

lage ;  as  it  was  she  had  two  faitliful  admirers  whom 
she  could  count  on  once  a  week. 

The  life  itself  often  struck  her  as  horrible,  foul; 
still  she  was  getting  inured  to  the  inane  and  could 
listen  to  it  with  a  tolerant  smile ;  sometimes  she 
looked  dispassionately  into  men's  fevered  eyes  with 
a  little  wonder  and  an  immense  satisfaction  in  her 
power  and  the  value  of  her  beauty.  Sometimes  a 
thrill  of  hatred  went  through  her  and  she  loathed 
those  whose  toy  she  was ;  then  she  felt  tempted  to 
drink,  to  drugs,  to  anything  that  would  deaden  the 
nausea ;  but  she  would  rally :  the  first  night,  when 
she  had  drunk  deep  of  champagne  after  the  kummel, 
had  given  her  a  racking  headache  and  suggested 
that  beauty  does  not  thrive  on  mixed  drinks. 

Another  painful  moment  had  been  the  third  day 
after  her  new  departure.  It  seemed  to  force  realisa- 
tion upon  her.  Tacitly  the  early  cup  of  tea  had  been 
stopped.  Mary  now  never  came  to  the  door,  but 
breakfast  was  laid  for  two  in  the  dining-room  at  half 
past  nine  ;  the  hot  course  stood  on  a  chafing  dish 
over  a  tiny  flame  ;  the  teapot  was  stocked  and  a  kettle 
boiled  on  its  own  stand.  Neither  of  the  servants 
ever  appeared.  On  the  third  day,  however,  as 
Victoria  lay  in  her  boudoir,  reading,  preparatory  to 
ringing  the  cook  to  give  her  orders  for  the  day,  there 
was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

*  Come  in,'  said  Victoria  a  little  nervously.  She 
was  still  in  the  mood  of  feeling  awkward  before  her 
servants. 

Mary  came  in.  For  a  moment  she  tugged  at 
her  belt.  There  was  a  slight  flush  on  her  sallow 
face. 

'  Well  Mary  ? '  asked  Victoria,  still  nervous. 

*  If  you  please,  mum,  may  I  speak  to  you  ?  I've 
been  talking  to  cook,  mum,  and — ' 

'And?' 

*  Oh,  mum,  I  hope  you  won't  think  it's  because 


884  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

we're  giving  ourselves  airs  but  it  isn't  the  same  as  it 
was  here  before,  mum — ' 
'Well?' 

*  Well,  mum,  we  think  we'd  rather  go  munfi. 
There's  my  young  man,  mtmi,  and — and — ' 

*  And  he  doesn't  like  your  being  associated  with  a 
woman  of  my  kind  ?    Very  right  and  proper.' 

*  Oh,  mum,  I  don't  mean  that.  You've  always 
been  kind  to  me.  Cook  too,  she  says  she  feels  it 
very  much,  mum.  When  the  major  was  alive,  mum, 
it  was  different.  It  didn't  seem  to  matter  then,  mum, 
but  now — ' 

Mary  stopped.  For  a  moment  the  eyes  behind  the 
glasses  looked  as  if  they  were  going  to  cry. 

*  Don't  trouble  to  explain,  Mary,'  said  her  mistress 
with  some  asperity.  '  I  understand.  You  and  cook 
can't  afford  to  jeopardise  your  characters.  From  the 
dizzy  heights  of  trained  domesticity,  experts  in  your 
own  line,  you  are  justified  in  looking  down  upon  an 
unskilled  labourer.  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  have 
considered  the  social  problem  in  all  its  aspects,  that 
you  fully  realise  the  possibilities  of  a  woman  wage- 
earner  and  her  future.  By  all  means  go  where  your 
moral  sense  calls  you  :  I  shall  give  you  an  excellent 
character  and  demand  none  in  exchange.  There ! 
I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings,  Mary,  I  spoke 
hastily,'  she  added  as  the  maid's  features  contracted, 
*  you  only  do  this  to  please  your  young  man  ;  that  is 
woman's  profession,  and  I  of  all  people  must  approve 
of  what  you  do.  If  you  don't  mind,  both  of  you,  you 
will  leave  on  Saturday.  You  shall  have  your  full 
month  and  a  month's  board  allowance.  Now  send 
up  cook,  I  want  to  order  lunch.* 

She  could  almost  have  wept  as  she  lay  with  her 
face  in  the  cushion.  Her  servants  had  delivered 
an  ultimatum  from  womankind,  and  lack  of  supplies 
compelled  her  to  pick  up  the  gage  of  battle.  Mary 
^nd  cook  were  links  between  her  and  all  those  women 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  385 

wlio  shelter  behind  one  man  only,  and  from  that 
vantage  ground  hurl  stones  at  their  sisters  beyond  the 
gates.  The  significance  of  it  was  not  that  their 
services  were  lost  to  her,  but  that  she  must  now  be 
content  to  associate  with  another  class.  Soon,  how- 
ever, her  will  was  again  supreme.  'After  all,'  she 
thought,  '  I  have  done  with  Society.  I'm  a  pirate ; 
Society  '11  be  keen  enough  when  I've  won.' 

Within  three  days  she  had  readjusted  her  house- 
hold. She  had  decided  to  make  matters  easy  by 
engaging  two  German  girls.  Laura,  the  cook,  said  at 
once  that  it  was  all  one  to  her  who  came  to  the  house 
and  who  didn't,  so  long  as  they  left  her  alone  in  the 
kitchen,  and  provided  she  might  bring  her  large  tabby 
cat.  Augusta  the  maid,  a  long  lanky  girl  with  strong 
peasant  hands  and  carroty  hair,  declared  herself 
willing  to  oblige  the  herrschaft  in  any  way ;  she 
thereupon  demanded  an  increase  on  the  wages 
scheduled  for  her  at  the  registry  ofiice.  She  also 
confided  to  her  new  mistress  that  she  had  a  kerl  in 
Germany,  and  that  she  would  do  anything  to  earn 
her  dowry. 

Thus  the  establishment  settled  down  again,  Laura 
cooked  excellently.  Augusta  never  flinched  when 
bringing  in  the  tea  tray.  Her  big  blue  Saxon  eyes 
seemed  to  allow  everything  to  pass  through  them 
leaving  her  mind  unsoiled,  so  armoured  was  her  heart 
by  the  thought  of  that  dowry.  As  for  Snoo  and  Poo  : 
they  chased  the  tabby  cat  all  over  the  house  most  of 
the  day,  which  very  soon  improved  their  figures. 

Thus  the  even  tenour  of  Victoria's  life  continued. 
She  was  quite  a  popular  favourite.  As  soon  as  she 
sat  down  under  the  chandelier  half-a-dozen  men  were 
looking  at  her.  Sometimes  men  followed  her  into  the 
Vesuvius ;  but  these  she  seldom  encouraged,  for  her 
instinct  told  her  that  so  beautiful  a  woman  as  she  was 
should  set  a  high  price  on  herself,  and  high  prices 
were  not  to  be  found  in  Piccadilly.    Among  her 


286  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

faithful  was  a  bachelor  of  forty,  whom  she  only  knew 
as  Charlie.  This,  by  the  way,  was  a  characteristic  of 
her  acquaintances.  She  never  discovered  their 
names ;  some  in  fact  were  so  guarded  that  they  had 
apparently  discarded  their  watches  before  coming  out, 
BO  as  to  conceal  even  their  initials.  None  ever  showed 
a  pocketbook.  Charlie  was  dark  and  burned  by  the 
sun  of  the  tropics ;  there  was  something  bluff  and 
good-natured  about  him,  great  strength  too.  He  had 
sharp  grey  eyes  and  a  dark  moustache.  He  spoke 
extraordinarily  fast,  talked  loosely  of  places  he  had 
been  to :  China,  Mozambique,  South  America. 
Victoria  rather  liked  him ;  he  was  totally  dull, 
inclined  to  be  coarse ;  but  as  he  invariably  drank  far 
too  much  before  and  when  he  came  to  the  Vesuvius, 
he  made  no  demands  on  her  patience,  slept  like  a  log 
and  went  early,  leaving  handsome  recognition  behind 
him. 

There  was  Jim  too,  a  precise  top-hatted  city  clerk 
who  had  forced  himself  on  her  one  Saturday  afternoon 
as  she  crossed  Piccadilly  Circus.  He  seemed  such 
a  pattern  of  rectitude,  was  so  perfectly  trim  and 
brushed  that  she  allowed  herself  to  be  inveigled  into 
a  cab  and  driven  to  a  small  flat  in  Bayswater.  He 
was  too  prudent  to  visit  anybody  else's  rooms,  he 
said  ;  he  had  his  flat  on  a  weekly  tenancy.  Jim  kept 
rather  a  hold  on  her.  He  was  neither  rich  nor 
generous ;  in  fact  Victoria's  social  sense  often  stabbed 
her  for  what  she  considered  undercutting,  but  Jim 
used  to  hover  about  the  Vesuvius  five  minutes  before 
closing  time,  and  once  or  twice  when  Victoria  had  had 
no  luck  he  succeeded  like  the  vulture  on  the  stricken 
field. 

Most  of  the  others  were  dream  figures ;  she  lost 
count  of  them.  After  a  month  she  could  not  re- 
member a  face.  She  even  forgot  a  big  fellow  whom 
she  had  called  Black  Beauty,  who  came  down  from 
gomewhere  in  Devonshire  for  a  monthly  bust ;  he  was 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  287 

eo  mucli  offended  that  she  had  the  mortification  of 
seeing  him  captured  by  one  of  the  outer  circle  who  sit 
beyond  the  lights. 

In  the  middle  of  August  the  streets  she  called 
London  ■were  deserted.  Steamy  air,  dust  laden, 
floated  over  the  pavements.  The  Vesuvius  was  half 
empty,  and  she  had  to  cut  down  her  standards. 
Just  as  she  was  contemplating  moving  to  Folkestone 
for  a  month,  however,  she  received  a  letter  from 
solicitors  in  the  Strand,  Bastable,  Bastable  &  Sons, 
informing  her  that  *re  Major  Cairns  deceased,'  they 
were  realising  the  estate  on  behalf  of  the  administra- 
tors, and  that  they  would  be  obliged  if  she  would  say 
when  it  would  be  convenient  for  her  to  convey  the 
furniture  of  Elm  Tree  Place  into  their  hands.  This 
pertui'bed  Victoria  seriously.  The  furniture  had  a 
value,  and  besides  it  was  the  plant  of  a  flourishing 
business. 

'  Pity  he  died  suddenly,'  she  thought,  *  he'd  have 
done  something  for  me.  He  was  a  good  sort,  poor 
old  Tom.' 

She  dressed  herself  as  becomingly  and  quietly  as 
she  could,  and,  after  looking  up  the  law  of  intestacy  in 
Whitaker,  concluded  that  Marmaduke  Cairns's  old 
sisters  must  be  the  heirs.  Then  she  sallied  forth  to 
beard  the  solicitor  in  his  den.  The  den  was  a  magni- 
ficent suite  of  ofiices  just  off  the  Strand.  She  was 
ushered  into  a  waiting-room  partitioned  off  from  the 
general  office  by  glass.  It  was  all  very  frowsy  and 
hot.  There  was  nothing  to  read  except  the  Times 
and  she  was  uncomfortably  conscious  of  three  clerks 
and  an  office  boy  who  frequently  turned  round  and 
looked  through  the  partition.  At  last  she  was  ushered 
in.  The  solicitor  was  a  dry-looking  man  of  forty  or 
so;  his  parchment  face,  deeply  wrinkled  right  and 
left,  his  keen  blue  eyes  and  high  forehead  impressed 
her  as  dangerous.  He  motioned  her  to  an  armchair 
on  the  other  side  of  his  desk. 


288  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  Well,  Mrs  Ferris,'  he  said,  '  to  what  do  I  owe  the 
honour  of  this  visit  ?  '  He  sat  back  in  his  armchair 
and  bit  his  penholder,  A  smile  elongated  his  thin 
lips.  This  was  his  undoing,  for  he  looked  less 
formidable  and  Victoria  decided  on  a  line  of  action. 
She  had  come  disturbed,  now  she  was  on  her  mettle. 

'Mr  Bastable,'  she  said,  plunging  at  once  into 
the  subject,  *  you  ask  me  to  surrender  my  furniture. 
I'm  not  going  to.' 

'  Oh  ? '  The  solicitor  raised  his  eyebrows.  '  But, 
my  dear  madame,  surely  you  must  see  .  .  .' 

*  I  do.     But  I'm  not  going  to.' 

*  Well,'  he  said,  '  I  hardly  see  .  .  .  My  duty  will 
compel  me  to  take  steps  .  .  .' 

*0f  course,'  said  Victoria  smiling,  'but  if  you 
refuse  to  let  me  alone  I  shall  go  out  of  this  office, 
have  the  furniture  moved  to-day  and  put  up  at  auction 
to-morrow.' 

A  smile  came  over  the  solicitor's  face.  By  Jove, 
she  was  a  fine  woman,  and  she  had  some  spirit. 

*  Besides,'  she  added,  '  all  this  would  cause  me  a 
great  deal  of  annoyance.  Major  Cairns's  affairs  are 
still  very  interesting  to  the  public.  1  shall  be  com- 
pelled, if  you  make  me  sell,  to  write  a  serial,  say 
My  Life  with  an  Irish  Martyr  for  a  Sunday  paper.' 

Mr  Bastable  laughed  frankly. 

'  You  want  to  be  nasty,  I  see.  But  you  know,  we 
can  stop  your  sale  by  an  application  to  a  judge  in 
chambers  this  afternoon.  And  as  for  your  serial, 
well.  Major  Cairns  is  dead,  he  won't  mind.' 

'No,  but  his  aunts  will.  Their  name  is  Cairns. 
As  regards  the  sale,  perhaps  you  and  the  other 
lawyers  can  stop  it.  Very  well,  either  you  promise 
or  I  go  home  and  .  .  .  perhaps  there'll  be  a  fire 
to-night  and  perhaps  there  won't.     I'm  fully  insured.' 

*  By  Jove  ! '  Bastable  looked  at  her  critically.  Cairns 
had  been  a  lucky  man.  '  Well,  Mrs  Ferris,'  he  added, 
'  we're  not  used  to  troublesome  customers  like  you. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  289 

I  don't  suppose  the  furniture  is  valuable,  is  it?' 

*  Oh,  a  couple  of  hundred,'  said  Victoria  dis- 
honestly. 

'M'm.  Do  you  absolutely  want  me  to  pledge 
myself  ? ' 

*  Absolutely.' 

'  Well,  Mrs  Ferris,  I  can  honestly  promise  you  that 
you  won't  hear  anything  more  about  it.  I  ...  I 
don't  think  it  would  pay  us.' 

Victoria  laughed.  A  great  joy  of  triumph  was 
upon  her.  She  liked  Bastable  rather,  now  she  had 
brought  him  to  heel. 

'All  right,'  she  said,  'it's  a  bargain.'  Then  she 
saw  that  his  mouth  was  smiling  still  and  his  eyes 
fixed  on  her  face. 

'There's  no  quarrel  between  us,  is  there?  ' 

'No,  of  course  not.  All  in  the  way  of  business, 
you  know.' 

He  bent  across  the  table ;  she  heard  him  breathe 
in  her  perfume. 

'  Then,'  she  said  slowly,  getting  up  and  pulling 
on  her  gloves,  'I'm  not  doing  anything  to-night. 
You  know  my  address.  Seven  o'clock.  You  may 
take  me  out  to  dinner.' 


CHAPTER  IX 

Within  a  few  days  of  her  victory  over  Mr  Bastable, 
Victoria  found  herself  in  an  introspective  mood.  The 
solicitor  was  the  origin  of  it,  though  unimportant 
in  himself  as  the  grain  of  sand  which  falls  into 
a  machine,  and  for  a  fraction  of  a  second  causes 
a  wheel  to  rasp  before  the  grain  is  crunched  up. 
She  reflected,  as  she  looked  out  over  her  garden,  that 
she  was  getting  very  hard.  She  had  brought  this 
man  to  his  knees  by  threats;  she  had  vulgarly 
bullied  him  by  holding  exposure  over  his  head  ;  she 
had  behaved  like  a  tragedy  queen.  Finally,  with 
sardonic  intention,  she  had  turned  the  contest  to 
good  account  by  entangling  him  while  he  was  still 
under  the  influence  of  her  personality. 

All  this  was  not  what  disturbed  her ;  for  after  all 
she  had  only  lied  to  Bastable,  bullied  him,  threatened 
him,  bluffed  as  to  her  intentions :  she  had  been 
perfectly  businesslike.  Thoughtfully  she  opened 
the  little  door  at  the  end  of  the  hall  and  stepped 
out  on  the  outer  landing  where  the  garden  steps 
ended.  Snoo  and  Poo,  asleep  in  a  heap  in  the 
August  blaze,  raised  heavy  eyelids,  and,  yawning 
and  stretching,  followed  her  down  the  steps. 

This  was  a  joyful  little  garden.  The  greater  part 
of  it  was  a  lawn,  close  cut,  but  disfigured  in  many 
places  by  Snoo  and  Poo's  digging.  Flower  beds  ran 
along  both  sides  and  the  top  of  the  lawn,  while  the 
bottom  was  occupied  by  the  pergola,  now  covered 
with  massive  red  blooms ;    an  acacia  tree,  and  an 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  291 

elder  tree,  botli  leafy  but  refusing  to  flower,  shaded 
the  bottom  of  the  garden,  which  was  effectively  cut 
off  by  a  hedge  of  golden  privet.  It  was  a  tidy 
garden,  but  it  showed  no  traces  of  originality. 
Victoria  had  ordered  it  to  be  potted  with  geraniums, 
carnations,  pinks,  marguerites ;  and  was  quite  content 
to  observe  that  somebody  had  put  in  sweet  peas, 
clematis  and  larkspur.  Hers  was  not  the  tempera- 
ment which  expresses  itself  in  a  garden  ;  there  was 
no  sense  of  peace  in  her  idea  of  the  beautiful.  If 
she  liked  the  garden  to  look  pretty  at  all,  it  was 
doubtless  owing  to  her  heredity. 

Victoria  picked  up  a  couple  of  stones  and  threw 
them  towards  the  end  of  the  garden.  Snoo  and  Poo 
rushed  into  the  privet,  snufHing  excitedly,  while  their 
mistress  drew  down  a  heavy  rose-laden  branch  from 
the  pergola  and  breathed  the  blossoms.  Yes,  she 
was  hard,  and  it  was  beginning  to  make  her  nervous. 
In  the  early  days  she  had  sedulously  cultivated  the 
spirit  which  was  making  a  new  woman  out  of  the 
quiet,  refined,  rather  shy  girl  she  had  been.  There 
had  been  a  time  when  she  would  have  shuddered  at 
the  idea  of  a  quarrel  with  a  cabman  about  an  over- 
charge ;  now,  if  it  were  possible,  she  felt  coldly  certain 
that  she  would  cheat  him  of  his  rightful  fare.  This 
process  she  likened  to  the  tempering  of  steel,  and 
called  a  development  of  the  mental  muscles.  She 
rather  revelled  in  this  development  in.  the  earlier 
days,  because  it  gave  her  a  sense  of  power;  she 
benefited  by  it  too,  for  she  found  that  by  cultivating 
this  hardness  she  could  extort  more  money  by  stoop- 
ing to  wheedle,  by  accepting  snubs,  by  flattery  and 
lies  too.  The  consciousness  of  this  power  redeemed 
the  exercise  of  it ;  she  often  felt  herself  lifted  above 
this  atmosphere  of  deceit  by  looking  coldly  at  the 
deed  she  was  about  to  do,  recognising  its  nature  and 
doing  it  with  her  eyes  open. 

A  realization  of  another  kind,  however,  was  upon 


292  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Victoria  that  ricli  August  day.  In  a  sense  she  was 
doing  well.  Her  capital  had  not  been  touched  ;  in 
fact  it  had  probably  increased,  and  this  in  spite  of 
town  being  empty.  She  had  not  yet  found  the  man 
who  would  make  her  fortune  ;  but  she  had  no  doubt 
that  he  would  appear  if  she  continued  on  her  even 
road,  selecting  without  passion,  judging  values  and 
possibilities.  For  the  moment  she  brushed  aside  the 
question  of  success;  it  was  assured.  But,  after 
success,  what  then?  Say  she  had  four  or  five 
hundred  a  year  at  thirty  and  retired  into  the  country 
or  went  to  America.  What  use  would  she  be  to 
herself  or  to  anybody  if  she  had  learned  exclusively 
to  bide  her  time  and  to  strike  for  her  own  advantage  ? 
Life  was  a  contest  for  the  poor  and  for  the  rich  alike ; 
but  the  first  had  to  fight  to  win  and  to  use  any  means, 
fair  or  foul,  while  the  latter  could  accept  knightly 
rules,  be  magnanimous  when  victorious,  graceful 
when  defeated. 

'  Yes,'  said  Victoria,  '  I  must  keep  myself  in  trim. 
It's  all  very  well  to  win  and  I've  got  to  be  as  hard  as 
nails  to  men,  but  .  .  .' 

She  stopped  abruptly.  The  problem  had  solved 
itself.  '  Hard  as  nails  to  men,'  did  not  include 
women,  for  *  men '  seldom  means  mankind  when  the 
talk  is  of  rights.  She  did  not  know  what  her  mission 
might  be.  Perhaps,  after  she  had  succeeded,  she 
would  travel  all  over  Europe,  perhaps  settle  on  the 
English  downs  where  the  west  winds  blow,  perhaps 
even  be  the  pioneer  of  a  great  sex  revolt;  but 
whatever  she  did,  if  her  triumph  was  not  to  be 
sterile,  she  would  need  sympathy,  the  capacity  to 
love.  Thus  she  amended  her  articles  of  war: 
'  Woman  shall  be  spared,  and  I  shall  remember  that, 
as  a  member  of  a  sex  fighting  another  sex,  I  must 
understand  and  love  my  sister  warrior.' 

It  was  in  pursuance  of  her  new  policy  that,  on  her 
way  to  the  Vesuvius,  Victoria  dawdled  for  a  moment 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  293 

at  the  entrance  of  Swallow  Street,  under  its  portico. 
A  few  yards  beyond  her  stood  a  woman  whom  she 
knew  by  sight  as  having  estabhshed  practically  a 
proprietary  right  to  her'  beat.  She  was  a  dark 
girl,  good-looking  enough,  well  set  up  in  her 
close  fitting  white  linen  blouse,  drawn  tight  to  set 
off  her  swelling  bust.  In  the  dim  light  Victoria 
could  see  that  her  face  was  rather  worn,  and  that  the 
ravages  of  time  had  been  clumsily  repaired.  The 
girl  looked  at  her  curiously  at  first ;  then  angrily, 
evidently  disliking  the  appearance  of  what  might  be 
a  dangerous  rival  in  her  own  preserves.  Victoria 
walked  up  and  down  on  the  pavement.  The  girl 
watched  her  every  footstep.  Once  she  made  as  if  to 
speak  to  her.  It  was  ghostly,  for  passers-by  in 
Regent  Street  came  to  and  fro  beyond  the  portico 
like  arabesques.  A  passing  policeman  gave  the  girl 
a  meaning  look.  She  tossed  her  head  and  walked 
away  down  Regent  Street,  while  Victoria  nervously 
continued  down  Swallow  Street  to  Piccadilly. 

These  two  women  were  to  meet,  however.  About 
a  week  later,  Victoria,  happening  to  pass  by  at  the 
same  hour,  saw  the  girl  and  stopped  under  the  arch. 
In  another  second  the  girl  was  by  her  side. 

'What  are  you  following  me  about  for?'  she 
snarled.  *If  you're  a  grote  it's  no  go.  You  won't 
teach  the  copper  anything  he  doesn't  know.' 

'  Oh,  I'm  not  following  you,'  said  Victoria.  *  Only 
I  saw  you  about  and  thought  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you.' 

The  girl  shot  a  dark  glance  at  her. 

*  What's  your  game  ? '  she  asked.  '  You're  not  one 
of  those  blasted  sisters.  Too  tofl&sh.  Seen  you  come 
out  of  the  Vez',  besides.' 

'  I'm  in  the  profession,'  said  Victoria  coolly.  '  But 
that  doesn't  mean  I've  got  to  be  against  the 
others.' 

'  Doesn't  it ! '  The  girl's  eyes  glowed.  *  You  don't 
know  your  job.     Of  course  you've  got  to  be  against 


294  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

the  others.  We  were  born  like  that.  Or  got  like 
that.     What's  it  matter  ? ' 

'Matter?  oh,  a  lot,'  said  Victoria.  *We  want 
friends,  all  of  us.' 

'  Friends.  Oh,  Lord !  The  likes  of  you  and  me 
don't  have  friends.  Women,  they  won't  know  us  .  .  . 
too  good.  Except  our  sort.  We  can't  talk  ;  we  got 
nothing  to  talk  of,  except  money  and  the  boys.  And 
the  boys,  what's  the  good  of  them  ?  There's  the  sort 
you  pick  up  and  all  you've  got  to  do's  to  get  what 
you  can  out  of  them.  Haven't  fallen  in  love  with  one, 
have  you  ? '  The  girl's  voice  broke  a  little,  then  she 
went  on.  '  Then,  there's  the  other  sort,  like  my  Hugo, 
p'raps  you've  heard  of  him  ? ' 

*  No,'  she  said,  '  I  haven't.     What  is  he  like  ? ' 

'  Bless  you,  he's  a  beauty.'  The  girl  smiled ;  her 
face  was  full  of  pride. 

*  Does  he  treat  you  well  ? ' 

*  So  so.  Sometimes.'  The  shadow  had  returned. 
*  Not  like  my  first.  Oh,  it's  hard  you  know,  begin- 
ning. He  left  me  with  a  baby  after  three  months. 
I  was  in  service  in  Pembridge  Gardens — such  a  swell 
house !  I  had  to  keep  baby.  It  died  then,  jolly  good 
thing  too !  Couldn't  go  back  to  service.  Everybody 
knew.' 

The  girl  burst  into  tears  and  Victoria  putting  an 
arm  round  her  drew  her  against  her  breast. 

*  Everybody  knew,  everybody  knew ! '  wailed  the 
girl. 

Victoria  had  the  vision  of  a  thousand  spectral  eyes, 
all  full  of  knowledge,  gazing  at  the  housemaid  caught 
by  them  sinning.  The  girl  rested  her  head  against 
Victoria's  shoulder  for  a  moment,  holding  one  of  her 
hands.  Suddenly  she  raised  her  head  again  and 
cleared  her  throat. 

*  There,'  she  said,  *  let  me  go.  Hugo's  waiting  for 
me  at  the  Carcassonne.  Never  mind  me.  We've  all 
got  to  live,  he-he ! ' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  295 

She  turned  into  Regent  Street  and  another  '  lie-he ' 
floated  back.  Victoria  felt  a  heavy  weight  at  her 
heart ;  poor  girl,  weak,  the  sport  of  one  man,  deceived, 
then  a  pirate  made  to  disgorge  her  gains  by  another 
man  ;  handsome,  subtle,  playing  upon  her  affections 
and  her  fears.  What  did  it  matter  ?  Was  she  not  in 
the  same  position,  but  freer  because  conscious ;  poor 
slave  soul.  But  the  time  had  come  for  Victoria  to 
make  for  the  Vesuvius.  '  It  must  be  getting  late,' 
she  thought,  putting  up  her  hand  to  her  little  gold 
watch-brooch. 

It  was  gone.  She  had  it  on  when  she  left,  but  it 
could  not  have  dropped  out,  for  the  lace  showed  two 
long  rips  ;  it  had  just  been  torn  out.  Victoria  stood 
frozen  for  a  moment.  So  this  was  the  result  of  a  first 
attempt  at  love.  She  recovered,  however.  She  was 
not  going  to  generalise  from  one  woman.  '  Besides,' 
she  thought  bitterly,  '  the  girl's  theories  are  the  same 
as  mine.  She  merely  has  no  reservations  or  hesitations. 
The  bolder  pirate,  she  is  perhaps  the  better  brain.' 

Then  she  walked  down  Swallow  Street  into 
Piccadilly,  and  at  once  a  young  man  in  loud  checks  was 
at  her  side.  She  looked  up  into  his  face,  her  smile 
full  of  covert  promise  as  they  went  into  the  Vesuvius 
together.  Victoria  was  now  at  home  in  the  market 
place,  and  could  exchange  a  quip  with  the  frequenters. 
Languidly  she  dropped  her  cloak  into  the  hands  of 
the  porter  and  preceded  the  young  man  into  the 
supper-room.  As  they  sat  at  the  little  table  before 
the  liqueur,  her  eyes  saw  the  garish  room  through  a 
film.  How  deadening  it  all  was,  and  how  lethal  the 
draughts  sold  here.  An  immense  weariness  was 
upon  her,  an  immense  disgust,  as  she  smiled  full- 
toothed  on  the  young  man  in  checks.  He  was  a 
cheerful  rattle,  suggested  the  man  who  has  got  beyond 
the  retail  trade  without  reaching  the  professions,  a 
house  agent's  clerk  perhaps. 

*  Oh,  yes,  I'm  a  merry  devil,  ha !  ha ! '     He  winked 


296  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

a  pleasant  grey  eye.  Victoria  noticed  that  his 
clothes  were  too  new,  his  boots  too  new,  his  manners 
too  a  recent  acquisition. 

'Don't  worry.  That's  how  you  keep  young, 
ha  !  ha !  Besides,  don't  have  much  time  to  mope  in 
my  trade?' 

*  What's  that  ? '  asked  Victoria  vacuously.  Men 
generally  lied  as  to  their  occupation,  but  she  had 
noticed  that  when  their  imagination  was  stimulated 
their  temper  improved. 

*  Inspector  of  bun-punchers,  ha !  ha ! ' 

*  Bun-punchers  ? ' 

'Yes,  bun-punchers.  South  Eastern  Railway,  you 
know.  Got  to  have  them  dated  now.  New  Act  of 
Parliament,  ha !  ha ! ' 

Victoria  laughed,  for  his  cockney  joviality  was 
infectious.  Then  again  the  room  faded  and  re- 
materialised  as  his  voice  rose  and  fell. 

'  The  wife  don't  know  I'm  out  on  the  tiles,  ha !  ha ! 
She's  in  Streatham,  looking  after  the  smalls.  .  .  . 
Oh,  no,  none  of  your  common  or  garden  brass 
fenders.  .  .  .' 

Victoria  pulled  herself  together.  This  was  what 
she  could  not  bear.  Brutality,  the  obscene  even, 
were  preferable  to  this  dreary  trickling  of  the  inane 
masquerading  as  wit.     Yet  she  smiled  at  him. 

'You're  saucy,'  she  said.  'You're  my  fancy 
to-night.' 

A  shadow  passed  over  the  man's  face.  Then  again 
he  was  rattling  along. 

*  Talk  of  inventions  ?  What'd  you  think  of  mine  : 
indiarubber  books  to  read  in  your  bath  ?  ha !  ha !  .  .  .* 

But  these  are  only  the  moths  that  flutter  round  the 
lamp,  too  far  off  to  bum  their  wings.  They  love  to 
breathe  perfume,  to  touch  soft  hands,  gaze  at  bright 
eyes  and  golden  hair  ;  then  they  flutter  away,  and  the 
hand  that  would  stay  their  flight  cannot  rob  them  even 
of  a  few  specks  of  golden  dust.     In  a  few  minutes 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  297 

Victoria  sat  philosophically  before  her  empty  glass 
while  Fascination  Fledgeby  was  by  the  side  of  a 
rival,  being  '  an  awful  dog,'  for  the  benefit  of  his 
fellow  clerks  on  the  morrow.  She  was  in  the  mood 
when  it  did  not  matter  whether  she  was  unlucky  or  not. 
There  were  quite  two  women  present  for  every  man 
this  hot  August  night.  At  the  next  table  sat  a 
woman  known  as  '  Duckie,'  fair,  very  fat  and  rosy ; 
she  was  the  vision  bursting  from  a  white  dress  which 
Victoria  had  seen  the  first  night.  On  the  first  night 
she  had  embodied  for  Victoria — so  large,  so  fat,  so 
coarsely  animal  was  she — the  very  essence  of  her 
trade ;  now  she  knew  her  better  she  found  that 
Duckie  was  a  good  sort,  careless,  generous,  perfectly 
incapable  of  doing  anybody  an  ill  turn.  She  was 
honne  fille  even,  so  unmercenary  as  sometimes  to 
accede  good  humouredly  to  the  pleadings  of  an 
impecunious  youth.  Her  one  failing  was  a  fondness 
for  '  a  wet.'  She  was  drinking  her  third  whisky  and 
soda  ;  if  she  was  invited  to  supper  she  would  add  to 
that  at  least  half  a  bottle  of  champagne,  follow  that 
up  by  a  couple  of  liqueurs  and  a  peg  just  before  going 
to  bed.  She  carried  her  liquor  well ;  she  merely  grew 
a  little  vague. 

*  Hot,'  remarked  Duckie. 

'Rather,'  said  Victoria.  'I'm  going  soon,  can't 
stick  it.' 

'Good  for  you.  I've  got  to  stay.  Always 
harder  for  grandmas  like  me  when  the  fifth  form 
boy's  at  the  seaside.'  Duckie  laughed,  without 
cynicism  though;  she  had  the  reasoning  powers  of 
a  cow. 

Victoria  laughed  too.  A  foreign-looking  girl  in 
scarlet  bent  over  from  the  next  table,  her  long  coral 
earrings  sliding  down  over  her  collar-bones. 

*  Tight  again,'  said  the  girl. 

'  As  a  drum,  Lissa,  old  girl ! '  said  Duckie  good 
temperedly. 


298  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  Nothing  to  what  you'll  be  by  and  by,'  added  Lissa 
with  the  air  of  a  comforter. 

*  Nothing  like,  old  dear !  Have  one  with  me,  Lissa  ? 
No  ?     No  offence.     You,  Zo^,  have  a  lord  hoyaux  ? ' 

'  No  thanks.'  Zoe  was  a  good-looking  short  girl ; 
her  French  nationality  written  in  every  line  of  her 
round  face,  plump  figure,  and  hands.  Her  hair  was 
pulled  away  from  the  fat  nape  of  her  neck.  She 
looked  competent  and  wide  awake.  A  housewife 
gone  astray.  Lissa,  dark  and  Italian  looking  in  her 
red  dress  and  coral  earrings,  was  more  languid  than 
the  others.  She  was  really  a  Greek,  and  all  the  grace 
of  the  East  was  in  every  movement  of  her  slim  figure. 
In  a  moment  the  four  women  had  clustered  together, 
forgetting  strife. 

Lissa  had  had  a  '  Bank  of  Engraving '  note  palmed 
off  on  her  by  a  pseudo-South  American  planter,  and 
was  rightly  indignant.  They  were  still  talking  of 
Camille  de  Valenciennes  and  of  her  misfortunes  with 
the  barber.  Boys,  the  latest  tip  for  Gat  wick,  '  what 
I  said  to  him,'  the  furriers'  sales,  boys  again  .  .  . 
Victoria  listened  to  the  conversation.  It  still  seemed 
like  another  world  and  yet  her  world.  Here  they 
were,  she  and  the  other  atoms,  hostile  every  one,  and 
a  blind  centripetal  force  was  kneading  them  together 
into  a  class.  Yet  any  class  was  better  than  the  isola- 
tion in  which  she  lived.  Why  not  go  further,  hear 
more? 

*  I  say,  you  girls,'  she  said  suddenly,  '  you've  never 
been  to  my  place.  Come  and  .  .  .  no,  not  dine,  it 
won't  work  .  .  .  come  and  lunch  with  me  next  week.' 

Duckie  smiled  heavily. 

*  I  don'  min','  she  said  thickly. 

Zo6  looked  suspicious  for  a  moment. 

*  Can  I  bring  Fritz  ?  '  asked  Lissa. 

*No,  we  can't  have  Fritz,'  said  Victoria  smiling. 
*  Ladies  only.' 

*  I'm  on,'  said  Zoe  suddenly.     '  I  was  afraid  you 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  299 

were  going  to  have  a  lot  of  swells  in.  Hate  those 
shows.  Never  do  you  any  good  and  you  get  so 
crumpled.' 

'  You  might  let  me  bring  Fritz,'  said  Lissa 
querulously. 

'No  men,'  said  Victoria  firmly.  'Wednesday  at 
one  o'clock.     All  square  ? ' 

'  Thatawright,'  remarked  Duckie.  '  Shut  it 
Lissa.     Fritzawright.     Tellm  its  biz  .  .  .  bizness.' 

With  some  difiiculty  they  hoisted  Duckie  into  a 
cab  and  sent  her  off  to  Bloomsbury.  As  it  drove 
off  she  popped  her  head  out. 

'  Carriage  paid  ?  '  she  spluttered,  '  or  C  0.  D.  ?  ' 

Zoe  and  Lissa  walked  away  to  the  circus.  On  her 
little  hall  table,  as  Victoria  went  into  her  house,  she 
foimd  a  note  scrawled  in  pencil  on  some  of  her  own 
notepaper.  It  was  from  Betty.  It  said  that  Farwell 
had  been  stricken  down  by  a  sudden  illness  and  was 
sinking  fast.     His  address  followed. 


CHAPTER  X 

In  a  bed  sitting-room  at  the  top  of  an  old  house  off 
the  Waterloo  Road  three  women  were  watching  by 
the  bedside  of  a  man.  One  was  dressed  in  rusty- 
black  ;  she  was  pale  faced,  crowned  with  light  hair ; 
the  other,  shifting  uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other, 
was  middle-aged  and  very  stout ;  her  breast  rolled 
like  a  billow  in  her  half  buttoned  bodice.  The  third 
was  beautiful,  all  in  black,  her  sumptuous  neck  and 
shoulders  bare.  None  of  them  moved  for  a  moment. 
Then  the  beautiful  woman  threw  back  her  cloak  and 
her  long  jade  earrings  tinkled.  The  face  on  the 
pillow  turned  and  opened  its  eyes. 

*  Victoria,'  said  a  faint  voice. 

*  Yes  .  .  .  are  you  better  ? '  Victoria  bent  over  the 
bed.  The  face  was  copper  coloured ;  every  bone 
seemed  to  start  out.  She  could  hardly  recognise 
Farwell's  rough  hewn  features. 

'Not  yet  .  .  .  soon,'  said  Farwell.  He  closed  his 
eyes  once  more. 

*  What  is  it,  Betty  ? '  whispered  Victoria. 
*I  don't  know  .  .  .  hemorrhage  they  say.' 

'It's  all  up  mum,'  whispered  the  landlady  in 
Victoria's  ear.  *  Been  ill  two  days  only.  Doctor  said 
he  wouldn't  come  again.' 

Victoria  bent  over  the  bed  once  more.  She  could 
feel  the  eyes  of  the  landlady  probing  her  personality. 

'  Can't  you  do  something  ? '  she  asked  savagely. 

'Nothing.'  Farwell  opened  his  eyes  again  and 
faintly  smiled.     *  And  what's  the  good,  Victoria  ? 

r» 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  301 

Victoria  threw  herself  on  her  knees  by  the  side  of 
the  bed.  'Oh,  yon  musn't ! '  she  whispered.  'Yon 
.  .  .  the  world  can't  spare  yon  ! ' 

'  Oh,  yes  ...  it  can  .  .  .  yon  know  .  .  .  the 
world  is  like  men  .  ,  it  spends  everything  on  luxnries 
...  it  can't  afford  necessaries.' 

Victoria  smiled  and  felt  as  if  she  were  going  to 
choke.     The  last  paradox. 

'  Are  you  in  pain  ?  '  she  asked. 

*  No,  not  just  now.  ...  I  shall  be,  soon.  Let  me 
speak  while  I  can.'     His  voice  grew  firmer  suddenly. 

'I  have  asked  you  to  come  so  that  you  may  be 
the  last  thing  I  see  ;  you,  the  fairest.     I  love  you.' 
Not  one  of  the  three  women  moved. 

*  I  have  not  spoken  before,  because  when  I  could 
speak  we  were  slaves.  Now  you  are  free  and  I  a 
slave.  It  is  too  late,  so  it  is  time  for  me  to  speak. 
For  I  cannot  influence  you.' 

Farwell  shut  his  eyes.  But  soon  his  voice  rose 
again. 

'  You  must  never  influence  anybody.  That  is  my 
legacy  to  you.  You  cannot  teach  men  to  stand  by 
giving  them  a  staff.  Let  the  halt  and  the  lame  alone. 
The  strong  will  win.  You  must  be  free.  There  is 
nothing  worth  while.  .  .  .'  A  shiver  passed  over 
him,  his  voice  became  muffled. 

'  No,  nothing  at  all  .  .  .  freedom  only.  .  .  .' 

He  spoke  quicker.  The  words  could  not  be 
distinguished.     Now  and  then  he  groaned. 

'  Wait,'  whispered  Betty,  '  it  will  be  over  in  a 
minute.'     For  two  minutes  they  waited. 

Victoria's  eyes  fastened  on  a  basin  by  the  bedside, 
full  of  reddish  water.  Then  FarweU's  face  gi-ew 
lighter  in  tone.  His  voice  came  faint  as  the  sound  of 
a  spinet. 

'There  will  be  better  times.  But  before  then 
fighting  .  .  .  the  coming  to  the  top  of  the  leaders  .  .  . 
gold  will  be  taken  from  the  rich  .  .  .  given  to  the 


3oa  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

vile  .  .  .  pictures  burnt  .  .  .  chaos  .  .  .  woman  rise 
as  a  tyrant  .  .  .  there  will  be  fighting  .  .  .  the 
coming  to  the  top.  .  .  .'  His  voice  thinned  down  to 
nothing  as  his  wandering  mind  repeated  his  predic- 
tion.    Then  he  spoke  again. 

*  You  are  a  rebel  .  .  .  you  will  lead  .  .  .  you  have 
understood  .  .  .  only  by  imderstanding  are  you  saved. 
I  asked  you  to  come  here  to  tell  you  to  go  on  .  .  . 
earn  your  freedom  ...  at  the  expense  of  others.' 

*  Why  at  the  expense  of  others  ? '  asked  Betty, 
leaning  over  the  bed.  Far  well  was  hypnotising  her. 
His  eyes  wandered  to  her  face. 

'  Too  late  ..."  he  said,  '  you  do  not  see  .  .  .  you 
are  a  slave  ...  a  woman  has  only  one  weapon  .  .  . 
otherwise,  a  slave  .  .  .  ask  .  .  .  ask  Victoria.'  He 
closed  his  eyes  but  went  on  speaking. 

*  There  is  not  freedom  for  everybody  .  .  .  capitalism 
means  freedom  for  a  few  .  .  .  you  must  have  freedom, 
like  food  .  .  .  food  for  the  soul  .  .  .  you  must  capture 
the  right  to  respect  ...  a  woman  may  not  toil  .  .  . 
make  money  .  .  .' 

Then  again :  '  I  am  going  into  the  blackness  .  .  . 
before  Death  .  .  .  the  Judge  .  .  .  Death  will  judge 
me.  .  .  .' 

*  'E's  thinking  of  his  Maker,  poor  genelman,'  said 
the  landlady  hoarsely. 

Victoria  and  Betty  looked  at  one  another.  Agnostic 
or  indifferent  in  their  cooler  moments,  the  superstition 
of  their  ancestors  worked  in  their  blood,  powerfully 
assisted  by  the  spectacle  of  this  being  passing  step 
by  step  into  an  unknown.  There  must  be  life  there, 
feeling,  loving.     There  must  be  Something. 

The  voice  stopped.  Betty  had  seized  Victoria's 
arm  and  now  clutched  it  violently.  Victoria  could 
feel  through  her  own  body  the  shudders  that  shook 
the  girl's  frame.  Then  Farwell's  voice  rose  again, 
louder  and  louder,  like  the  upward  flicker  of  a  dying 
candle. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  303 

'Yes,  freedom's  my  message,  the  right  to  live. 
This  world,  into  which  we  are  evolved  by  a  selfish  act 
of  joy,  into  which  we  are  dragged  unwilling  with 
pain  for  our  usher,  it  is  a  world  which  has  no  justifica- 
tion save  the  freedom  to  enjoy  it  as  we  may.  I  have 
lived  a  stoic,  but  it  is  a  hedonist  I  die.  Unshepherded 
I  go  into  a  perhaps.  But  I  regret  nothing  ...  all 
the  certainties  of  the  past  are  not  worth  the  possible 
of  the  future.  Behind  me  others  tread  the  road  that 
leads  up  the  hill.' 

He  paused  for  breath.  Then  again  his  voice  arose 
as  a  crj'',  proclaiming  his  creed. 

'  On  the  top  of  the  hill.  There  I  see  the  unknown 
land,  running  with  milk  and  honey.  I  see  a  new 
people ;  beautiful  young,  beautiful  old.  Its  fathers 
have  ground  the  faces  of  the  helots  ;  they  have  fought 
and  lusted,  they  have  suffered  contumely  and  stripes. 
Now  they  know  the  Law,  the  Law  that  all  may  keep 
because  they  are  beyond  the  Law.  They  do  not 
desire,  for  they  have,  they  do  not  weigh,  for  they 
know.  They  have  not  feared,  they  have  dared  ;  they 
have  spared  no  man,  nor  themselves.  Ah  !  now  they 
have  opened  the  Golden  Gates.  .  .  .' 

The  man's  voice  broke,  he  coughed,  a  thin 
stream  of  blood  trickled  from  the  side  of  his  mouth. 
Victoria  felt  a  film  come  over  her  eyes.  She  leant 
over  him  to  staunch  the  flow.  They  saw  one 
another  tlien.  Far  well's  voice  went  down  to  a 
whisper. 

'  Victoria  .  .  .  victorious  .  .  .  my  love  .  .  .  never 
more.  .  .  .' 

She  looked  into  his  glazing  eyes. 

'  Beyond  .  .  .'  he  whispered ;  then  his  head  fell 
to  one  side  and  his  jaw  dropped. 

Betty  turned  away.  She  was  crying.  The  land- 
lady wiped  her  hands  on  her  apron.  Victoria  hesi- 
tatingly took  hold  of  Farwell's  wrist.  He  was  dead. 
She  looked  at  him  stupidly  for  a  moment,  then  drew 


304  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

her  cloak  round  her  shivering  shoulders.  The  land- 
lady too  was  crying  now. 

'  Oh,  mum,  sich  a  nice  genelman,'  she  moaned. 
*  But  'e  did  go  on  so  ! ' 

Victoria  smiled  pitifully.  What  an  epitaph  for  a 
sunset !  She  drove  away  with  Betty  and,  as  the  horse 
trotted  through  the  deserted  streets,  hugged  the  girl 
in  her  arms.  Betty  was  shuddering  violently,  and 
nestled  close  up  to  her.  They  did  not  speak. 
Everything  seemed  to  have  become  loose  in  Victoria's 
mind  and  to  be  floating  on  a  black  sea.  The  pillar 
of  her  individualism  was  down.  Her  codes  were  in 
the  melting  pot ;  a  man,  the  finest  she  had  known, 
had  confessed  his  love  in  his  extremity,  and  before 
she  could  respond  passed  into  the  shadow.  But 
Farwell  had  left  her  as  a  legacy  the  love  of  freedom 
for  which  he  died,  for  which  she  was  going  to  live. 

When  they  arrived  at  Elm  Tree  Place,  Victoria 
forced  Betty  to  drink  some  brandy,  to  tell  her  how 
Farwell  had  sent  her  a  message,  asking  her  to  send 
him  Victoria,  how  she  had  waited  for  her. 

'  Oh,  it  was  awful,'  whispered  Betty, '  the  maid  said 
you'd  be  late  .  .  .  she  said  I  mustn't  wait  because 
you  might  not  .  .  .' 

'  Not  come  home  alone  ? '  said  Victoria  in  a  frozen 
voice. 

*  Oh,  I  can't  bear  it,  I  can't  bear  it.'  Betty  flung 
herself  into  her  friend's  arms,  wildly  weeping. 

Victoria  soothed  her,  made  her  undress.  As  Betty 
grew  more  collected  she  let  drop  a  few  words. 

'  Oh,  so  then  you  too  are  happy  ? '  said  Victoria 
smiling  faintly. 

'  You  love  ? '     A  burning  blush  rose  over  Betty's  face. 

That  night,  as  in  the  old  Finsbury  days,  they  lay 
in  one  another's  arms  and  Victoria  gi'appled  with  her 
sorrow.  Gentle,  almost  motherly,  she  watched  over 
this  young  life  ;  blushing,  full  of  promise,  preparing 
already  to  replace  the  dead. 


CHAPTER  XI 

The  death  of  Farwell  seemed  to  leave  Victoria 
struggling  and  gasping  for  breath,  like  a  shipwrecked 
mariner  who  tries  to  secure  his  footing  on  shifting 
sand  while  waves  knock  him  down  every  time  he 
rises  to  his  knees.  Though  she  hardly  ever  saw  him 
and  though  she  had  no  precise  idea  that  he  cared 
for  her  more  than  does  the  scientist  for  the  bacteria 
he  observes,  he  had  been  her  tower  of  strength.  He 
was  there,  like  the  institutions  which  make  up  civilisa- 
tion, the  British  Constitution,  the  Bank  and  the 
Established  Church.  Now  he  was  gone  and  she  saw 
that  the  temple  of  life  was  empty.  He  was  the  last 
link,  Cairns's  death  had  turned  her  out  among  the 
howling  wolves  ;  now  Farwell  seemed  to  have  carried 
away  with  him  her  theory  of  life.  Above  all,  she 
now  knew  nobody ;  save  Betty,  who  counted  as  a 
charming  child.  It  was  then  she  began  to  taste 
more  cruelly  the  isolation  of  her  class. 

In  the  early  days,  when  she  paced  up  and  down 
fiercely  in  the  room  at  Portsea  Place,  she  had  already 
realised  that  she  was  alone,  but  then  she  was  not 
an  outcast ;  the  doors  of  society  were,  if  not  open, 
at  any  rate  not  locked  against  her.  Then  the  busy 
hum  of  the  Rosebud  and  the  P.R.R.,  the  back-break- 
ing work,  the  hustle,  the  facile  friendships  with  City 
beaus — all  this  had  drawn  a  veil  over  her  solitude. 
Now  she  was  really  alone  because ,  none  knew  and 
none  would  know  her.  Her  beauty,  her  fine  clothes, 
contributed  to  clear  round  her  a  circle  as  if  she  were 
U  30s 


3o6  A  BED  Ol?  ROSES 

a  leper.  At  times  she  would  talk  to  a  woman  in  a 
park,  but  before  a  few  sentences  had  passed  her  lips 
the  woman  would  take  in  every  detail  of  her,  her 
clean  gloves,  her  neat  shoes,  her  lace  handkerchief, 
her  costly  veil;  then  the  woman's  face  would  grow 
rigid,  and  with  a  curt  '  good  morning '  she  would  rise 
from  her  seat  and  go. 

Victoria  found  herself  thrust  back,  like  the  trapper 
in  the  hands  of  Red  Indians ;  like  him  she  ran  in  a 
circle,  clubbed  back  towards  the  centre  every  time 
she  tried  to  escape.  She  was  of  her  class,  and  none 
but  her  class  would  associate  with  her.  Women  such 
as  herself  gladly  talked  to  her,  but  their  ideas  sickened 
her,  for  life  had  taught  them  nothing  but  the  ethics 
of  the  sex-trade.  Their  followers  too — barbers,  billiard 
markers,  shady  bookmakers,  unemployed  potmen ;  who 
sometimes  dared  to  foist  themselves  on  her — filled  her 
with  yet  greater  fear  and  disgust,  for  they  were  the 
only  class  of  man  alternative  to  those  on  whose  bounty 
she  lived.  Thus  she  withdrew  herself  away  from  all ; 
sometimes  a  craving  for  society  would  throw  her  into 
equivocal  converse  with  Augusta,  whose  one  idea  was 
the  dowry  she  must  take  back  to  Germany.  Then, 
tiring  of  her,  she  would  snatch  up  Snoo  and  Poo 
and  pace  round  and  round  her  tiny  lawn  like  a 
squirrel  in  its  wheel. 

A  chance  meeting  with  Molly  emphasised  her 
isolation,  like  the  flash  of  lightning  wliich  leaves  the 
night  darker.  She  was  standing  on  the  steps  of  the 
Sandringham  Tea  House  in  Bond  Street,  looking  into 
the  side  window  of  the  photographer  who  runs  a 
print  shop  on  the  ground  floor.  Some  sprawling 
Boucher  beauties  in  delicate  gold  frames  fascinated 
her.  She  delighted  in  the  semi-crude,  semi-sophisti- 
cated atmosphere,  tlie  rotundity  of  the  well-fed  bodies, 
their  ribald  rosy  flesh.  As  she  was  wondering  whether 
they  would  not  do  for  the  stairs  the  door  opened 
suddenly  and  a  plump  little  woman  almost  rushed 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  307 

into  her  arms.  The  little  woman  apologised,  giving 
her  a  quick  look.  Then  the  two  looked  at  one 
another  again. 

'  Victoria ! '  cried  Molly,  for  it  was  she,  with  her 
wide  open  blue  eyes,  small  nose,  fair  frizzy  hair. 

A  thrill  of  joy  and  fear  ran  through  Victoria.  She 
felt  her  personality  criddle  up  like  a  scorched  moth, 
then  expand  like  a  flower  unde^  gentle  dew.  She 
was  found  out ;  the  terrible  female  instinct  was  going 
to  detect  her,  then  to  proclaim,  her  guilt.  However, 
bravely  enough,  she  braced  herself  up  and  held  out 
her  hand. 

'  Oh,  Vic,  why  haven't  you  written  to  me  for,  let 
me  see,  tliree  years,  isn't  it  ?  ' 

'I've  been  away,  abroad,'  said  Victoria  slowly.  She 
seemed  to  float  in  another  world.  Molly  was  talking 
vigorously ;  Victoria's  brain,  feverishly  active,  was 
making  up  the  story  which  would  have  to  be  told 
when  Molly's  cheerful  egotism  had  had  its  way. 

'  Don't  let's  stay  here  on  the  doorstep,'  she  inter- 
rupted, '  let's  go  upstairs  and  have  tea.  You  haven't 
had  tea  yet  ? ' 

*  I  should  love  to,'  said  Molly,  squeezing  her  arm. 
*  Then  you  can  tell  me  about  yourself.' 

Seated  at  a  little  table  Molly  finished  her  simple 
story.  She  had  married  an  army  chaplain,  but  he 
had  given  up  his  work  in  India  and  was  now  rector  of 
Pontyberis  in  Wales.  They  had  two  children.  Molly 
was  up  in  town  merely  to  break  the  journey,  as  she 
was  going  down  to  stay  with  her  aunt  in  Kent.  Oh, 
yes,  she  was  very  happy ,  her  husband  was  very  well. 

'  They're  talking  of  making  him  Dean  of  Ffwr,' 
she  added  with  unction.  '  But  that's  enough  about 
me.  How  have  you  been  getting  on,  Vic  ?  I  needn't 
ask  how  you  are ;  one  only  has  to  look  at  you.' 
Molly's  eyes  roved  over  her  friend's  beautiful  young 
face,  her  clothes  which  she  appraised  with  the  skill 
of  those  poor  who  are  learned  in  the  fashions. 


3o8  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  I?     Oil,  I'm  very  well,'  said  Victoria  hysterically. 

'  Yes,  but  how  have  you  been  getting  on  ?  Weren't 
you  talking  about  having  to  work  when  you  cam© 
over  ? ' 

'  Yes,  but  I've  been  lucky  ...  a  week  after  I  got 
here  an  aunt  of  my  mother's  died  of  whom  I  never 
even  heard  before.  They  told  me  at  Dick's  lawyers 
a  month  later,  and  you  wouldn't  believe  it,  there  was 
no  will  and  I  came  in  for  .  .  .  well  something  quite 
comfortable.' 

Molly  put  out  her  hand  and  stroked  Victoria's. 

*  I'm  so  glad,'  she  said.  ...  *  Oh,  you  don't  know 
how  hard  it  is  to  have  to  work  for  your  living.  I 
see  something  of  it  in  Wales.  Oh,  if  you  only 
knew.  .  .  .' 

Victoria  pressed  her  lips  together,  as  if  about  to 
cry  or  laugh. 

*  But  what  did  you  do  then  ?  You  only  wrote  once. 
You  didn't  tell  me?' 

*  No,  I  only  heard  a  month  after,  you  know.  Oh,  I 
had  a  lot  to  do.  I  travelled  a  lot.  I've  been  in 
America  a  good  deal.  In  fact  my  home  is  in  .  .  . 
Alabama.'  She  plunged  for  Alabama,  feeling  sure 
that  New  York  was  unsafe. 

'  Oh,  how  nice,'  said  MoUy  ingenuously.  *  You 
might  have  sent  me  picture  postcards,  you  know.' 

Skilfully  enough  Victoria  explained  that  she  had 
lost  Molly's  address.  Her  friend  blissfully  accepted 
all  she  said,  but  a  few  other  women  less  ingenuous 
than  the  clergyman's  wife  were  casting  sharp  glances 
at  her.  When  they  parted,  Victoria  audaciously 
giving  her  address  as  *  care  of  Mrs  Ferris,  Elm  Tree 
Place,'  she  threw  herself  back  on  the  cushions  of  the 
cab  and  told  herself  that  she  could  not  again  go 
through  with  the  ordeal  of  facing  her  own  class. 
She  almost  hungered  for  the  morrow,  when  she  was  to 
entertain  the  class  she  had  adopted. 


CHAPTER  Xn 

The  Fulton  household  had  always  been  short  of 
money,  for  Dick  spent  too  much  himself  to  leave 
anything  for  entertaining;  thus  Victoria  had  very 
little  experience  of  lunch  parties.  Since  she  had 
left  the  Holts  she  hardly  remembered  a  bourgeois 
meal.  The  little  affair  on  the  Wednesday  "was  there- 
fore provocative  of  much  thought.  Mutton  was 
dismissed  as  common,  beef  in  any  form  as  coarse ; 
Laura's  suggestion  (for  Laura  and  Augusta  had  been 
called  in)  of  a  savoury  sauerkraut  ('mit  Blutwurst, 
Frankfurter,  Leberwurst,  etc.'),  was  also  dismissed. 
Both  servants  took  a  keen  interest  in  the  occasion. 

'  But  why  no  gentleman  come  ? '  asked  Laura,  who 
was  clearly  ill-disposed  to  do  her  best  for  her  own 
Bex. 

'In  the  house  I  was  .  .  .'  began  Augusta  .  .  . 
then  she  froze  up  under  Victoria's  eye.  Her  mistress 
still  had  a  strain  of  the  prig  in  her. 

Then  Augusta  suggested  hors  d'oeuvres,  smoked 
salmon,  anchovies,  olives,  radishes ;  Laura  forced 
forward  fowl  a  la  Milanaise  to  be  preceded  by  baked 
John  Dory  cayenne.  Then  Augusta  in  a  moment  of 
inspiration  thought  of  French  beans  and  vegetable 
marrow  .  .  .  stuffed  with  chestnuts.  The  three 
women  laughed,  Laura  clapped  her  hands  with  the 
sheer  joy  of  the  creative  artist. 

When  Victoria  came  into  the  dining-room  at  half -past 
twelve  she  was  almost  dazzled  by  her  own  magnifi- 
cence.   Neither  the  Carlton  nor  the  Savoy  could  equal 

309 


jio  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

the  blaze  of  her  plate,  the  brilliant  polish  of  her  table- 
cloths. The  dahlias  blazed  dark  red  in  cut  glass  by 
the  side  of  pale  belated  roses  from  the  garden.  On 
the  sideboard  fat  peaches  were  heaped  in  a  modem 
Lowestoft  bowl,  and  amber-coloured  plimis  lay  like 
portly  dowagers  in  velvet. 

A  few  minutes  before  the  hour  Zo6  and  Lissa 
arrived  together.  They  were  nervous ;  not  on 
account  of  Victoria's  spread,  for  they  were  of  the 
upper  stratimi,  but  because  they  were  in  a  house. 
Accustomed  to  their  small  flats  off  Shaftesbury  Avenue, 
where  tiny  kitchens  jostled  with  bedroom  and  boudoir, 
they  were  frightened  by  the  suggestion  of  a  vast  base- 
ment out  of  which  floated  the  savoury  aroma  of  the 
John  Dory  baking.  Victoria  tried  to  put  them  at 
their  ease,  took  their  parasols  away  and  showed  them 
into  the  boudoir.  There  they  sat  in  a  triangle,  the 
hot  sun  blazing  in  upon  them,  stiff  and  starched  with 
the  formality  of  those  who  are  seldom  formal. 

*  Have  a  Manhattan  cocktail  ? '  asked  the  hostess. 

*  No  thanks ;  very  hot,  isn't  it  ? '  said  Lissa  in  her 
most  refined  manner.  She  was  looking  very  pretty, 
dark,  slim  and  snaky  in  her  close-fitting  lemon 
coloured  frock. 

*  Very  hot,'  chimed  in  Zo6.  She  was  sitting  un- 
necessarily erect.  Her  flat  French  back  seemed  to 
abhor  the  easy  chair.  Her  tight  hair,  her  trim  hands, 
her  well  boned  collar,  everything  breathed  neatness, 
well  laced  stays,  a  full  complement  of  hooks  and 
eyes.  She  might  have  been  the  sedate  wife  of  a 
prosperous  French  tradesman. 

*  Yes,  it  is  hot,  said  Victoria. 

Then  the  conversation  flagged.  The  hostess  tried 
to  draw  out  her  guests.  They  were  obviously  anxious 
to  behave.  Lissa  posed  for '  The  Sketch,'  Zo^  remained 
trh  correcte. 

*  Do  you  like  my  pictures  ?  '  asked  Victoria  pointing 
to  the  French  engravings. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  3" 

*  They  are  very  pretty/  said  Lissa. 

*  I  am  very  interested  in  engravings,'  said  Zo^, 
looking  at  the  rosewood  clock.  There  was  a  longish 
pause. 

*I  must  show  you  my  little  dogs,'  cried  Victoria, 
She  must  do  something.  She  went  out  to  the  landing 
and  opened  the  garden  door.  There  she  met  Augusta 
carrying  a  trayful  of  finger  bowls.  She  felt  inspired 
to  overturn  it  if  only  to  break  the  ice.  Snoo  and 
Poo  rushed  in,  but  in  the  boudoir  they  also  instinctively 
became  very  well-bred. 

'I  am  very  fond  of  dogs,'  said  Lissa.  Snoo  lay 
down  on  her  back. 

*  She  is  very  pretty,'  remarked  Zoe. 

Victoria  punched  the  dogs  in  the  ribs,  rolled  them 
over.  It  was  no  good.  They  would  do  nothing  but 
gently  wag  their  tails.  She  felt  she  would  like  to 
swear,  when  suddenly  the  front  door  was  slammed, 
a  cheerful  voice  rang  in  the  hall. 

*  Hulloa,  here's  Duckie,'  said  Lissa. 

The  door  opened  loudly  and  Duckie  seemed  to  rush 
in  as  if  seated  on  a  high  wind. 

*  Here  we  are  again  ! '  cried  the  buxom  presence  in 
white.  Every  one  of  her  frills  rattled  like  metal. 
'  Late  as  usual.     Oh,  Vic,  what  angel  pups  ! ' 

Duckie  was  on  her  knees.  In  a  moment  she  had 
stirred  up  the  Pekingese.  They  forgot  their  manners. 
They  barked  vociferously ;  and  Zoe's  starch  was  taken 
out  of  her  by  Poo,  who  rushed  under  her  skirts. 
Lissa  laughed  and  jumped  up. 

*  Here  Vic,'  said  Duckie  ponderously,  '  give  us  a 
hand,  old  girl.  Never  can  jump  about  after  gin  and 
bitters,'  she  added  confidentially  as  they  helped  her  up. 

The  ice  was  effectually  broken.  They  filed  into 
the  dining-room  in  pairs,  Victoria  and  Lissa  being 
slim  playing  the  part  of  men.  How  they  gobbled  up 
the  hors  d'oeuvres  and  how  golden  the  John  Dory 
was ;  the  flanks  of  the  fish  shone  like  an  old  violin. 


312  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

A.ugii8ta  flitted  about  quick  but  noisy.    There  was  a 
smile  on  her  face. 

*  Steady  on,  old  love,'  said  Duckie  to  her  as  the 
maid  inadvertently  poured  her  claret  into  a  tumbler. 

'Never  you  mind,  Gussie,'  cried  Zo^,  bursting  with 
familiarity,  '  she'll  be  having  it  in  a  bucket  by  and  by.' 

Augusta  laughed.     What  easy  going  herrschaft ! 

The  talk  was  getting  racier  now.  By  the  time 
they  got  to  the  dessert  the  merriment  was  rather 
supper  than  lunch-like. 

'  Victoria  plums,'  said  Lissa,  '  let  us  name  them 
Bonne  Hotesse.^ 

The  idea  was  triumphant.  Duckie  insisted  on 
drinking  a  toast  in  hock,  for  she  never  hesitated  to 
mix  her  wines.  Victoria  smiled  at  them  indulgently. 
The  youth  of  all  this  and  the  jollity,  the  ease  of  it ; 
all  that  was  not  of  her  old  class. 

'  Confusion  to  the  puritans,'  she  cried,  and  drained 
her  glass.  Snoo  and  Poo  were  fighting  for  scraps, 
for  Duckie  was  already  getting  uncertain  in  her  aim. 
Lissa  and  Zo^,  like  njrmphs  teasing  Bacchus,  were 
pelting  her  with  plum  stones,  but  she  seemed  quite 
unconscious  of  their  pranks.  They  had  some  difficulty 
in  getting  her  into  the  boudoir  for  coffee  and  liqueurs  ; 
once  on  the  sofa  she  tried  to  go  to  sleep.  Her  com- 
panions roused  her,  however ;  the  scent  of  coffee, 
acrid  and  stimulating,  stung  their  nostrils ;  the 
liqueurs  shone  wickedly,  green  and  golden  in  their 
glass  bottles ;  talk  became  more  individual,  more 
reminiscent.  Here  and  there  a  joke  shot  up  like  a 
rocket  or  stuck  quivering  in  Duckie's  placid  flanks. 

*  Well  Vic,'  said  Zo6,  '  you  are  very  well  instalUe.' 
She  slowly  emptied  of  cigarette  smoke  her  expanded 
cheeks  and  surveyed  the  comfortable  little  room. 

'  Did  you  do  it  yourself  ?  '  asked  Lissa.  '  It  must 
have  cost  you  a  lot  of  money.' 

'  Oh,  I  didn't  pay.'  Victoria  was  either  getting 
less  reticent  or  the  liqueur  was  playing  her  tricks. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  313 

*  I  began  with  a  man  who  set  me  up  her,'  she  added ; 
*he  was  ...  he  died  suddenly'  she  went  on  more 
cautiously. 

'  Oh ! '  Zo^'s  eyebrows  shot  up.  '  That's  what  I 
call  luck.  But  why  do  you  not  have  a  flat?  It  is 
cheaper.' 

*  Yes,  but  more  inconvenient,'  said  Lissa.  *  Ah,  Vic. 
I  do  envy  you.  You  don't  know.  We're  always  in 
trouble.     We  are  moving  every  month.' 

*  But  why  ? '  asked  Victoria.    '  Why  must  you  move  ? ' 
'Turn   you   out.     Neighbours   talk    and   then  the 

landlord's  conscience  begins  to  prick  him,'  grumbled 
Duckie  from  the  sofa. 

*0h,  I  see,'  said  Victoria.  *But  when  they  turn 
you  out  what  do  you  do  ? ' 

'  Go  somewhere  else,  softy,'  said  Duckie. 

*  But  then  what  good  does  it  do  ? ' 
All  the  women  laughed. 

*  Law,  who  cares  ? '  said  Duckie.     *  I  dunno.* 

*  It  is  perfectly  simple,'  began  Zoe  in  her  precise 
foreign  English.  *  You  see  the  landlord  he  will  not 
let  flats  to  ladies.  When  the  police  began  to  watch 
it  would  cause  him  des  ennuis.  So  he  lets  to  a 
gentleman  who  sublets  the  flats,  you  see  ?  When  the 
trouble  begins,  he  doesn't  know.' 

'  But  what  about  the  man  who  sublets  ? '  asked  the 
novice. 

'Him?     Oh,  he's  gone  when  it  begins,'  said  Lissa. 

*  But  they  arrest  the  hall  porter.' 

*  Justice  must  have  its  way,  I  see,'  said  Victoria. 

*  What  you  call  justice,'  grumbled  Duckie,  '  I  call 
it  damned  hard  lines.' 

For  some  minutes  Victoria  discussed  the  housing 
problem  with  the  fat  jolly  woman.  Duckie  was  in  a 
cheerful  mood.  One  could  hardly  believe,  when  one 
looked  at  her  puffy  pink  face,  that  she  had  seen 
fifteen  years  of  trouble. 

'Landladies,'   she  soliloquised,  'it's  worse.    You 


314  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

take  my  tip  Vic,  you  steer  clear  of  them.  You  pay 
as  m.nch  for  a  pigsty  as  a  man  pays  for  a  palace.  If 
you  do  badly  they  chuck  you  out  and  stick  to  your 
traps  and  what  can  you  do?  You  don't  call  a 
policeman.  If  you  do  well,  they  raise  the  rent, 
steal  your  clothes,  charge  you  key  money,  and  don't 
give  'em  any  lip  if  you  don't  want  a  man  set  at 
you.     Oh,  Lor ! ' 

Duckie  went  on,  and  as  she  spoke  her  bluntness 
caused  Victoria  to  visualise  scene  after  scene,  one 
more  horrible  than  another :  a  tall  dingy  house  in 
Bloomsbury  with  unlit  staircases  leading  up  to  black 
landings  suggestive  of  robbery  and  murder  ;  bedrooms 
with  blinded  windows,  reeking  with  patchouli,  with 
carpets  soiled  by  a  myriad  ignoble  stains.  The  house 
Duckie  pictured  was  like  a  warren  in  every  corner  of 
which  soft-handed,  rosy-lipped  harpies  sucked  men's 
life-blood ;  there  was  drinking  in  it,  and  a  piano 
played  light  airs ;  below  in  the  ground  floor,  through 
the  half  open  door,  she  could  see  two  or  tliree 
foreigners,  unshaven,  dirty-cuffed,  playing  cards  in 
silence  like  hunters  in  ambush.     She  shuddered. 

*  Yes,  but  Fritz  isn't  so  bad,'  broke  in  Lissa.  She 
had  all  this  time  been  wrangling  with  Zo6. 

*  No  good,'  snapped  Zo6,  '  he's  a  ...  a  houche 
inutUe.'  Her  pursed-up  lips  tightened.  Fritz  was 
swept  away  to  limbo  by  her  practical  French 
philosophy, 

*  I  like  him  because  he  is  not  useful '  said  Lissa 
dreamily.  Zo^  shrugged  her  shoulders.  Poor  fool, 
this  Lissa. 

'  Who  is  this  Fritz  you're  always  talking  about  ? ' 
asked  Victoria. 

*  He's  a  .  .  ,  you  know  what  they  call  them,'  said 
Duckie  brutally. 

'  You're  a  liar,'  screamed  Lissa  jumping  up.  *  He's 
...  oh,  Vic,  you  do  not  understand.  He's  the  man 
I  care  for ;  he  is  so  handsome,  so  clever,  so  gentle  .  .  .' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  315 

*  Very  gentle,'  sneered  Zo^,  *  why  did  you  not  take 
off  your  long  gloves  last  week,  hein?  Perhaps  you 
had  blue  marks  ? ' 

Lissa  looked  about  to  cry.  Victoria  put  her  hand 
on  her  arm. 

'  Never  mind  them,'  she  said,  *  tell  me.' 

*  Oh,  Vic,  you  are  so  good.'  Lissa's  face  twitched, 
then  she  smiled  like  a  child  bribed  with  a  sweet. 

*  They  do  not  know ;  they  are  hard.  It  is  true,  Fritz 
does  not  work,  but  if  we  were  married  he  would  work 
and  I  would  do  nothing.  What  does  it  matter  ? ' 
They  all  smiled  at  the  theory,  but  Lissa  went  on  with 
heightened  colour. 

*  Oh,  it  is  so  good  to  forget  all  the  others ;  they  are 
so  ugly,  so  stupid.  It  is  infernal.  And  then,  Fritz, 
the  man  that  I  love  for  himself  .  .  .' 

*  And  who  loves  you  for  .  .  .'  began  Zoe. 

'Shut  up,  Zoe,'  said  Duckie,  her  kindly  heart 
expanding  before  this  idealism,  '  leave  the  kid  alone. 
Not  in  my  line  of  course.  You  take  my  tip,  all  of 
you,  you  go  on  your  own.  Don't  you  get  let  in  with 
a  landlady  and  don't  you  get  let  in  with  a  man.  It's 
them  you've  got  to  let  in.' 

'  That's  what  I  say,*  remarked  Zoe.  *  We  are 
successful  because  we  take  care.  One  must  be 
economical.  For  instance,  every  month  I  can.  .  .  .* 
She  stopped  and  looked  round  suspiciously ;  with 
economy  goes  distrust,  and   Zoe  was  very  French. 

*  Well,  1  can  manage,'  she  concluded  vaguely. 

'  And  you  need  not  talk,  Duckie,*  said  Lissa 
savagely.  'You  drink  two  quid's  worth  every 
week.' 

'  WeU,  s'pose  I  do,'  grumbled  the  cherub.  '  Think 
I  do  it  for  pleasure  ?  TeU  you  what,  if  I  hadn't  got 
squiffy  at  the  beginning  I'd  have  gone  off  me  bloomin' 
chump.  I  was  in  Buenos  Ayres,  went  off  with  a 
waiter  to  get  married.  He  was  in  a  restaurant, 
Highgate  way,  where  I  was  in  service.    I  found  out 


3i6  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

all  about  it  when  I  got  there.  0  Lor !  Why,  we  jolly 
well  had  to  drink,  what  with  those  Argentines  who're 
half  monkeys  and  the  good  of  the  house !  Oh, 
Lor ! '  She  smiled.  *  Those  were  high  old  times,'  she 
said  inconsequently,  overwhelmed  by  the  glamour  of 
the  past.     There  was  silence. 

'I  see,'  said  Victoria  suddenly.  'I've  never  seen 
it  before.  If  you  want  to  get  on,  you've  got  to  run 
on  business  lines.  No  ties,  no  men  to  bleed  you. 
Save  your  money.  Don't  drink ;  save  your  looks. 
Why,  those  are  good  rules  for  a  bank  cashier !  If 
you  trip,  down  you  go  in  the  mud  and  nobody'U  pick 
you  up.  So  you've  got  to  walk  warily,  not  look  at 
anybody,  play  fair  and  play  hard.  Then  you  can 
get  some  cash  together  and  then  you're  free.' 

There  was  silence.  Victoria  had  faced  the  problem 
too  squarely  for  two  of  her  guests.  Lissa  looked 
dreamily  towards  the  garden,  wondering  where  Fritz 
was,  whether  she  was  wise  in  loving;  Duckie,  con- 
scious of  her  heavy  legs  and  incipient  dropsy,  blushed, 
then  paled.  Alone,  Zo6,  stiff  and  energetic  like  the 
determined  business  woman  she  was,  wore  on  her 
lips  the  enigmatic  smile  born  of  a  nice  little  sum  in 
French  three  per  cents. 

'  I  must  be  going,'  said  Duckie  hoarsely.  She 
levered  herself  off  the  sofa.  Then,  almost  silently, 
the  party  broke  up. 


CHAPTER  Xm 

Life  pursued  its  even  tenour ;  and  Victoria,  watching 
it  go  by,  was  reminded  of  tlie  endless  belt  of  a 
machine.  The  world  machine  went  on  grinding,  and 
every  breath  she  took  was  grist  thrown  for  ever  into 
the  intolerable  mill.  It  was  October  again,  and 
already  the  trees  in  the  garden  were  shedding  fitful 
rains  of  glowing  leaves.  Alone  the  elder  tree  stood 
almost  unchanged,  a  symbol  of  the  everlasting.  Now 
and  then  Victoria  walked  round  the  little  lawn  with 
Snoo  and  Poo,  who  were  too  shivery  to  chase  the  fat 
spiders.  Often  she  stayed  there  for  an  hour,  one  hand 
against  a  tree  trunk,  looking  at  nothing,  bathed  in 
the  mauve  light  of  the  dying  year.  Already  the 
scents  of  decay,  of  wetness,  filled  the  little  garden 
and  struck  cold  when  the  sun  went  down. 

Every  day  now  Victoria  felt  her  isolation  more 
cruelly.  Solitude  was  no  longer  negative ;  it  had 
materialised  and  had  become  a  solid  inimical  presence. 
When  the  sun  shone  and  she  could  walk  the  milky 
way  of  the  streets,  alone  but  feeling  with  every  sense 
the  joy  of  living  time,  there  was  not  much  to  fear  from 
solitude  ;  there  were  things  to  look  at,  to  touch,  to 
smell.  Now  solitude  no  longer  lurked  round  corners  ; 
at  times  a  gust  of  wind  carried  its  icy  breath  into  her 
bones. 

She  was  suffering,  too,  a  little.  She  felt  heavy  in 
the  legs,  and  a  vein  in  her  left  calf  hurt  a  little  in  the 
evening  if  she  had  walked  or  stood  much.  Soon, 
though  it  did  not  increase,  the  pain  became  her  daily 


3i8  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

companion,  for  even  when  absent  it  haunted  her. 
She  would  await  a  twinge  for  a  whole  day,  ready  and 
fearful,  bracing  herself  up  against  a  shock  which 
often  found  her  unprepared.  At  all  times  too  the 
obsession  seemed  to  follow  her  now.  Perhaps  she 
was  walking  through  Regent's  Park,  buoyant  and 
feeling  capable  of  lifting  a  mountain,  but  the  thought 
would  rush  upon  her,  perhaps  it  was  going  to  hiirt. 
She  would  lie  awake  too,  oblivious  of  the  heavy 
breathing  by  her  side,  rested,  all  her  senses  asleep, 
and  then  though  she  felt  no  pain  the  fear  of  it  would 
come  upon  her  and  she  would  wrestle  with  the 
thought  that  the  blow  was  about  to  fall 

Sometimes  she  would  go  out  into  the  streets, 
seeking  variety  even  in  a  wrangle  between  her 
Pekingese  and  some  other  dog.  This  meant  that  she 
must  separate  them,  apologise  to  the  owner,  exchange 
perhaps  a  few  words.  Once  she  achieved  a  conversa- 
tion with  an  old  lady,  a  kindly  soul,  the  mistress  of 
a  poodle.  They  walked  together  along  the  Canal, 
and  the  futile  conversation  fell  like  balm  on  Victoria's 
ears.  The  freshness  of  a  voice  ignorant  of  double 
meanings  was  soft  as  dew.  They  were  to  meet 
again,  but  the  old  lady  was  a  near  neighbour  and 
she  must  have  heard  something  of  Victoria's  reputa- 
tion, for  when  they  met  again  opposite  Lord's,  the  old 
lady  crossed  over  and  the  poodle  followed  her 
haughtily,  leaving  Snoo  and  Poo  disconsolate  and 
wondering  on  the  edge  of  the  pavement. 

One  morning  Augusta  came  into  the  boudoir  about 
twelve,  carrying  a  visiting  card  on  a  little  tray. 

*  Miss  Emma  Welkin,'  read  Victoria.  '  League  of  the 
Rights  of  Women.     What  does  she  want,  Augusta  ? ' 

*  She  says  she  wants  to  see  Mrs  Ferris,  Mum.' 
'League  of  the   Rights  of  Women?     Why,    she 

must  be  a  suffragist.' 

'Yes,  Mum.  She  wear  a  straw  hat.  Mum,'  ex- 
plained Augusta  with  a  slight  sniff. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  319 

'And  a  tweed  coat  and  skirt,  I  suppose,'  said 
Victoria  smiling. 

*  Oh,  yes,  Mum.     Shall  I  say  go  away  ? ' 

*  M'm.    No,  tell  her  to  come  in.' 

While  Augusta  was  away  Victoria  settled  herself 
in  the  cushions.  Perhaps  it  might  be  interesting. 
The  visitor  was  shown  in. 

*  How  do  you  do  ? '  said  Victoria  holding  out  her 
hand.  *  Please  sit  down.  Excuse  my  getting  up,  I'm 
not  very  well.' 

Miss  Welkin  looked  about  her,  mildly  surprised. 
It  was  a  pretty  room,  but  somehow  she  felt  uncom- 
fortable. Victoria  was  looking  at  her.  A  capable 
type  of  feminity  this;  curious,  though,  in  its  thick 
man-like  clothes,  its  strong  boots.  She  was  not  bad 
looking,  thirty  perhaps,  very  erect  and  rather  flat. 
Her  face  was  fresh,  clean,  innocent  of  powder;  her 
eyes  were  steady  behind  glasses ;  her  hair  was  mostly 
invisible,  being  tightly  pulled  back.  There  were 
firm  lines  about  her  mouth.     A  fighting  animal. 

*I  hope  you'll  excuse  this  intrusion,'  said  the 
suffragist,  'but  I  got  your  name  from  the  directory 
and  I  have  come  to  ...  to  ascertain  your  views 
about  the  all-important  question  of  the  vote.*  There 
was  a  queer  stiltedness  about  the  little  speech.  Miss 
Welkin  was  addressing  the  meeting. 

*0h?  I'm  very  much  interested,'  said  Victoria. 
*  Of  cotirse  I  don't  know  anything  about  it  except 
what  I  read  in  the  papers.' 

The  grey  eyes  glittered.  Evangelic  fervour  radiated 
from  them.  *  That's  what  we  want,'  said  the  suffragist. 
'  It's  just  the  people  who  are  ready  to  be  our  friends 
who  haven't  heard  our  side  and  who  get  biassed. 
!Mrs  Ferris,  I'm  sure  you'll  come  in  with  us  and  join 
the  Marylebone  branch  ?  ' 

*  But  how  can  I  ? '  asked  Victoria.  '  You  see  I  know 
nothing  about  it  all.' 

'  Let  me  give    you    these    pamphlets,'    said    the 


320  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

suffragist.  Victoria  obediently  took  a  leaflet  on  the 
marriage  law,  a  pamphlet  on '  The  Rights  of  Women/ 
a  few  more  papers  too,  some  of  which  slipped  to  the 
floor. 

*  Thank  yon,'  she  said,  *  but  first  of  all  tell  me,  why 
do  you  want  the  vote  ? ' 

The  suffragist  looked  at  her  for  a  second.  This 
might  be  a  keen  recruit  when  she  was  converted. 
Then  a  flood  of  words  burst  from  her. 

*0h,  how  can  any  woman  ask,  when  she  sees  the 
misery,  the  subjection  in  which  we  live.  We  say 
that  we  want  the  vote  because  it  is  the  only  means 
we  have  to  attain  economic  freedom  ...  we  say  to 
man :  "  Put  your  weapon  in  our  hands  and  we  will 
show  you  what  we  can  do."  We  want  to  have  a  voice 
in  the  affairs  of  the  country.  We  want  to  say  how 
the  taxes  we  pay  shall  be  spent,  how  our  children 
shall  be  educated,  whether  our  sons  shall  go  to  war. 
We  say  it's  wrong  that  we  should  be  disfranchised 
because  we  are  women  ...  it  is  illogical  ...  we 
must  have  it.' 

The  suffragist  stopped  for  a  second  to  regain 
breath. 

'  I  see,'  said  Victoria,  '  but  how  is  the  vote  going 
to  help  ? ' 

'  Help  ? '  echoed  Miss  Welkin.  *  It  will  help  because 
it  will  enable  women  to  have  a  voice  in  national 
affairs.' 

*  You  must  think  me  awfully  stupid,'  said  Victoria 
sweetly,  '  but  what  use  will  it  be  to  us  if  we  do  get  a 
voice  in  national  affairs  ?  ' 

Miss  Welkin  ignored  the  interruption. 

'  It  is  wrong  that  we  should  not  have  a  vote  if  we 
are  reasonable  beings ;  we  can  be  teachers,  doctors, 
chemists,  factory  inspectors,  business  managere, 
writers ;  we  can  sit  on  local  authorities,  and  we  can't 
cast  a  vot«  for  a  member  of  Parliament.  It's  pre- 
posterous, it's  .  .  .' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  321 

'Yes,  I  nnderstand,  but  what  will  the  vote  do  for 
us  ?     Will  it  raise  wages  ?  ' 

*  It  must  raise  wages.  Men's  wages  have  risen  a 
lot  since  they  got  the  vote.' 

*  Do  you  think  that's  because  they  got  the  vote  ?  ' 

*  Yes.  Well,  partly.  At  any  rate  there  are  things 
above  wages,'  said  the  suffragist  excitedly.  '  And 
you  know,  we  know  that  the  vote  is  wanted  especially 
because  it  is  an  education ;  by  inducing  women  to 
take  an  interest  in  politics  we  will  broaden  their 
minds,  teach  them  to  combine  and  then  automatically 
their  wages  will  rise.' 

'  Oh,  yes.'  Victoria  was  rather  struck  by  the 
argument.  *  Then,'  she  said,  '  you  admit  men  are 
superior  to  women  ?  ' 

'  Well,  yes  at  any  rate  at  present,'  said  the  suffragist 
rather  sulkily.  '  But  you  must  remember  that  men 
have  had  nearly  eighty  years  training  in  political 
affairs.  That's  why  we  want  the  vote ;  to  wake  women 
up.  Oh,  you  have  no  idea  what  it  will  mean  when 
we  get  it.  We  shall  have  fresh  minds  bearing  on 
political  problems,  we  shall  have  more  adequate  pro- 
tection for  women  and  children,  compulsory  feeding, 
endowment  of  mothers,  more  education,  shorter  hours, 
more  sanitary  inspection.  We  shall  not  be  enslaved  by 
parties ;  a  nobler  influence,  the  influence  of  pure 
women  will  breathe  an  atmosphere  of  virtue  into  this 
terrible  world.' 

The  woman's  eyes  were  wrapt  now,  her  hands  tightly 
clenched,  her  lips  parted,  her  cheeks  a  little  flushed. 
But  Victoria's  face  had  hardened  suddenly. 

'Miss  Welkin,'  she  said  quietly,  'has  anything 
struck  you  about  this  house,  about  me  ?  * 

The  suffragist  looked  at  her  uneasily. 

'  You  ought  to  know  whom  you  are  talking  to,* 
Victoria  went  on,  *  I  am  a  ...  I  am  a  what  you  would 
probably  call  ...  well,  not  respectable.' 

A  dull  red  flush  spread  over  Miss  Welkin's  face, 
X 


322  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

from  the  line  of  her  tightly  pulled  hair  to  her  stiff 
white  collar ;  even  her  eai-s  went  red.  She  looked 
away  into  a  corner. 

'  You  see,'  said  Victoria,  *  it's  a  shock,  isn't  it.  I 
ought  not  to  have  let  you  in.  It  wasn't  quite  fair, 
was  it  ? ' 

*  Oh,  it  isn't  that,  Mrs  Ferris,'  burst  out  the 
sufEragist,  '  I'm  not  thinking  of  myself.  .  .  .' 

'  Excuse  me,  you  must.  You  can't  help  it.  If  you 
could  construct  a  scale  with  the  maximum  of  egotism 
at  one  end,  and  the  maximum  of  altruism  at  the 
other  and  divide  it,  say  into  one  hundred  degrees,  you 
would  not,  I  think,  place  your  noblest  thinkers  more 
than  a  degi'ee  or  two  beyond  the  egotistic  zero.  Now 
you,  a  pure  girl,  have  been  entrapped  into  the  house 
of  a  woman  of  no  reputation,  whom  you  would  not 
have  in  your  drawing-room.    Now,  would  you  ?  ' 

Miss  Welkin  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  the  flush 
was  dying  away  as  she  gazed  round  eyed  at  this 
beautiful  woman  lying  in  her  piled  cushions,  talking 
like  a  mathematician. 

*  I  haven't  come  here  to  ask  you  into  my  drawing- 
room,'  she  answered.  '  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to 
throw  in  your  labour,  your  time,  your  money,  with 
ours  in  the  service  of  our  cause.'  She  held  her  head 
higher  as  the  thought  rose  in  her  like  wine.  *  Our 
cause,'  she  continued,  '  is  not  the  cause  of  rich  women 
or  poor  women,  of  good  women  or  bad  ;  it's  the  cause 
of  woman.  Thus,  it  doesn't  matter  who  she  is,  so 
long  as  there  is  a  woman  who  stands  aloof  from  us 
there  is  still  work  to  do.' 

Victoria  looked  at  her  interestedly.  Her  eyes  were 
shining,  her  lips  parted  in  ecstasy. 

*Oh,I  know  what  you  think,'  the  suffragist  went 
on  ;  'as  you  say,  you  think  I  despise  you  because 
you  .  .  .  you.  .  .  .'  Tlie  flush  returned  slightly.  .  .  . 
'  But  I  know  that  yours  is  not  a  happy  life  and  we  are 
bringing  the  light.' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  323 

*  The  light ! '  echoed  Victoria  bitterly.  *  You  have 
no  idea,  I  see,  of  how  many  people  there  are  who  are 
bringing  the  light  to  women  like  me.  There  are 
various  religious  organisations  who  wish  to  rescue 
us  and  to  house  us  comfortably  under  the  patronage 
of  the  police,  to  keep  us  nicely  and  feed  us  on  what 
is  suitable  for  the  fallen ;  they  expect  us  to  sew  ten 
hours  a  day  for  these  privileges,  but  that  is  by  the 
way.  There  are  also  many  kindly  souls  who  offer 
little  jobs  as  charwomen  to  those  of  us  who  are  too 
worn  out  to  pursue  our  calling;  we  are  offered 
emigration  as  servants  in  exchange  for  the  power  of 
commanding  a  household ;  we  are  offered  poverty 
for  luxury,  service  for  domination,  slavery  to  women 
instead  of  slavery  to  men.  How  tempting  it  is  ! 
And  now  here  is  the  light  in  another  form  :  the  right 
to  drop  a  bit  of  paper  into  a  box  every  four  years  or 
so  and  settle  thereby  whether  the  Home  Secretary 
who  administers  the  law  of  my  trade  shall  live  in  fear 
of  buff  prejudice  or  blue.' 

The  suffragist  said  nothing  for  a  second.  She  felt 
shaken  by  Victoria's  bitterness. 

'  Women   will  have   no  party,'   she   said    lamely, 

*  they  will  vote  as  women.' 

'  Oh  ?  I  have  heard  somewhere  that  the  danger  of 
giving  women  the  vote  is  that  they  will  vote  solid  "  as 
women,"  as  you  say  and  swamp  the  men.    Is  that  so? ' 

*  No,  I'm  afraid  not,'  said  the  suffragist  unguardedly, 

*  of  course  women  will  split  up  into  political  parties.' 

'  Indeed  ?  Then  where  is  this  woman  vote  which 
is  going  to  remould  the  world  ?  It  is  swamped  in 
the  ordinary  parties.' 

The  suffragist  was  in  a  dilemma. 

*  You  forget,'  she  answered,  wriggling  on  the 
horns,  '  that  women  can  always  be  aroused  for  a  noble 
cause.  .  .  .' 

*  Am  I  a  noble  cause  ? '   asked  Victoria,  smiling. 

*  So  far  as  I  can  see  women,  even  the  highest  of  them, 


324  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

despise  us  because  we  do  illegally  what  they  do 
legally,  hate  us  because  we  attract,  envy  us  because 
we  shine.  I  have  often  thought  that  if  Christ  had  said , 
"  Let  her  who  hath  never  sinned  ..."  the  woman 
would  have  been  stoned.     What  do  you  think  ? ' 

The  suffragist  hesitated,  cleared  her  throat. 

'  That  will  all  go  when  we  have  the  vote,  women 
will  be  a  force,  a  nobler  force ;  they  will  realise  .  .  . 
they  will  sympathise  more  .  .  .  then  they  will  cast 
their  vote  for  women.' 

Victoria  shook  her  head. 

'Miss  Welkin,'  she  said,  'you  are  an  idealist. 
Now,  will  you  ask  me  to  your  next  meeting  if  you 
are  satisfied  as  to  my  views,  announce  me  for  what  I 
am  and  introduce  me  to  your  committee  ? ' 

*  I  don't  see  ...  I  don't  think,'  stammered  the 
suffragist,  '  you  see  some  of  our  committee.  .  .  .' 

Victoria  laughed. 

'  You  see.  Never  mind.  I  assure  you  I  wouldn't 
go.  But,  tell  me,  supposing  women  get  the  vote, 
most  of  my  class  will  be  disfranchised  on  the  present 
registration  law.     What  will  you  women  do  for  us  ? ' 

The  suffragist  thought  for  a  minute. 

*  We  shall  raise  the  condition  of  women,'  she  said. 
'  We  shall  give  them  a  new  status,  increase  the  respect 
of  men  for  them,  increase  their  respect  for  them- 
selves ;  besides,  it  will  raise  wages  and  that  will  help. 
We  shall  ...  we  shall  have  better  means  of 
reform  too.' 

'  What  means  ?  ' 

*  When  women  have  more  sympathy.* 

*  Votes  don't  mean  sympathy.' 

'  Well,  intelligence  then.  Oh,  Mrs  Ferris,  it's  not 
that  that  matters;  we're  going  to  the  root  of  it. 
We're  going  to  make  women  equal  to  men,  give  them 
the  same  opportunities,  the  same  rights.  .  .  .' 

*  Yes,  but  will  the  vote  increase  their  muscles  r  will 
it  make  them  more  logical,  fitter  to  earn  their  living  ?  * 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  325 

*  Of  course  it  will,'  said  Miss  Welkin  acidly. 

*  Then  how  do  you  explain  that  several  millions  of 
men  earn  less  than  thirty  shillings  a  week,  and 
that  at  times  hundreds  of  thousands  are  un- 
employed ? ' 

'The  vote  does  not  mean  everything,'  said  the 
suffragist  reluctantly.  *  It  will  merely  ensure  that 
we  rise  like  the  men  when  we  are  fit.' 

*  Well,  Miss  Welkin,  I  won't  press  that,  but  now, 
tell  me,  if  women  got  the  vote  to-morrow,  what  would 
it  do  for  my  class  ? ' 

*  It  would  raise.  .  .  .' 

*  No,  no,  we  can't  wait  to  be  raised.  We've  got  to 
live,  and  if  you  **  raise  "  us  we  lose  our  means  of  liveli- 
hood. How  are  you  going  to  get  to  the  root  cause 
and  lift  us,  not  the  next  generation,  at  once  out  of 
the  lower  depths  ? ' 

The  suffragist's  face  contracted. 

*  Everything  takes  time,'  she  faltered.  *  Just  as 
I  couldn't  promise  a  charwoman  that  her  hours  would 
go  down  and  her  wages  go  up  next  day,  I  can't  say 
that  ...  of  course  your  case  is  more  difficult  than 
any  other,  because  .  .  .  because.  .  .  .' 

*  Because,'  said  Victoria  coldly,  *  I  represent  a  social 
necessity.  So  long  as  your  economic  system  is  such 
that  there  is  not  work  for  the  asking  for  every  human 
being — work,  mark  you,  fitted  to  strength  and  ability — 
BO  long  on  the  other  hand  as  there  is  such  uncertainty 
as  prevents  men  from  marrying,  so  long  as  there  is 
a  leisured  class  who  draw  luxury  from  the  labour  of 
other  men  ;  so  long  will  my  class  endure  as  it  endured 
in  Athens,  in  Rome,  in  Alexandria,  as  it  does  now 
from  St  John's  Wood  to  Pekin.' 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Miss  Welkin  got  up 
awkwardly.     Victoria  followed  suit. 

'There,'  she  said,  'you  don't  mind  my  being  frank, 
do  you  ?  May  I  subscribe  this  sovereign  to  the  funds 
of   the   branch?     I  do   believe  you   are  right,   you 


326  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

know,  even  though  I'm  not  sure  the  millenium  is 
coming.' 

Miss  Welkin  looked  doubtfully  at  the  coin  in  her 
palm. 

'  Don't  refuse  it,'  said  Victoria,  smiling,  '  after  all, 
you  know,  in  politics  there  is  no  tainted  money.' 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Victoria  lay  back  in  bed,  gazing  at  the  blue  silk  wall. 
It  was  ten  o'clock,  but  still  dark ;  not  a  sound  dis- 
turbed dominical  peace,  except  the  rain  dripping 
from  the  trees,  falling  finally  like  the  strokes 
of  time.  Her  eyes  dwelt  for  a  moment 
on  the  colour  prints  where  the  nude  beauties 
languished.  She  felt  desperately  tired,  though  she 
had  not  left  the  house  for  thirty-six  hours  ;  her 
weariness  was  as  much  a  consequence  as  a  cause  of 
her  consciousness  of  defeat.  October  was  wearing  ; 
and  soon  the  cruel  winter  would  come  and  fix  its 
fangs  into  the  sole  remaining  joy  of  her  life,  the 
spectacle  of  life  itself.  She  was  desperately  tired, 
full  of  hatred  and  disgust.  If  the  face  of  a  man  rose 
before  her  she  thrust  it  back  savagely  into  limbo  ; 
her  legs  hurt.  The  time  had  come  when  she  must 
realise  her  failure.  She  was  not,  as  once  in  the 
P,  R.  R.,  in  the  last  stage  of  exhaustion,  hunted, 
tortured  ;  she  was  rather  the  wounded  bird  crawling 
away  to  die  in  a  thicket  than  the  brute  at  bay. 

As  she  lay,  she  realised  that  her  failure  had  two 
aspects.  It  was  together  a  monetary  and  a  physical 
failure.  The  last  three  months  had  in  themselves 
been  easy.  Her  working  hours  did  not  begin  before 
seven  o'clock  in  the  evening ;  and  it  was  open  to  her, 
being  young  and  beautiful,  to  put  them  off  for  two 
or  three  hours  more  ;  she  was  always  free  by  twelve 
o'clock  in  the  morning  at  the  very  latest,  and  then 
the  day  was  hers  to  rest,  to  read  and  think.     But  she 


3a8  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

was  still  too  much  of  a  novice  to  escape  the  excite- 
ment inherent  in  the  chase,  the  strain  of  making 
conversation,  of  facing  the  inane ;  nor  was  she  able 
without  a  mental  effort  to  bring  herself  to  the  re- 
sponse of  the  simulator.  As  she  sat  in  the  Vesuvius 
or  stared  into  the  showcase  of  a  Regent  Street 
jeweller,  a  faint  smile  upon  her  face,  her  brain  was 
awake,  her  faculties  at  high  pressure.  Her  eyes 
roved  right  and  left  and  every  nerve  seemed  to  dance 
with  expectation  or  disappointment.  When  she  got 
up  now,  she  found  her  body  heavy,  her  legs  sore  and 
all  her  being  dull  like  a  worn  stone.  A  little  more, 
she  felt,  and  the  degradation  of  her  body  would 
spread  to  her  sweet  lucidity  of  mind  ;  she  would  no 
longer  see  ultimate  ends  but  would  be  engulfed  in 
the  present,  become  a  bird  of  prey  seeking  hungrily 
pleasure  or  excitement. 

Besides,  and  this  seemed  more  serious  still,  she 
was  not  doing  well.  It  seemed  more  serious  because 
this  could  not  be  fought  as  could  be  intellectual 
brutalisation.  An  examination  of  her  pass  books 
showed  that  she  was  a  little  better  off  than  at  the 
time  of  Cairns's  death.  She  was  worth,  all  debts  paid, 
about  three  hundred  and  ninety  pounds.  Her  net 
savings  were  therefore  at  the  rate  of  about  a  hundred 
and  fifty  a  year  ;  but  she  had  been  wonderfully  lucky, 
and  nothing  said  that  age,  illness  or  such  mis- 
adventures as  she  classed  under  professional  risk, 
might  not  nullify  her  efforts  in  a  week.  There  was 
wear  and  tear  of  clothes  too  :  the  trousseau  presented 
her  by  Cairns  had  been  good  throughout  but  some  of 
the  linen  was  beginning  to  show  signs  of  wear  ;  boots 
and  shoes  wanted  renewing ;  there  were  winter 
garments  to  buy  and  new  furs. 

'  I  shall  have  stone  martin,'  she  reflected.  Then 
her  mind  ran  complacently  for  a  while  on  a  picture  of 
herself  in  stone  martin ;  a  pity  she  couldn't  run  to 
sables.     She  brought  herself  back  with  a  jerk  to  her 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  329 

consideration  of  ways  and  means.  The  situation  was 
really  not  brilliant.  Of  course  she  was  extravagant 
in  a  way.  Eighty-five  pounds  rent ;  thirty  pounds  in 
rates  and  taxes,  without  counting  income  tax  which 
might  be  anything,  for  she  dared  not  protest ;  two 
servants — all  that  was  too  much.  It  was  quite 
impossible  to  run  the  house  under  five  himdred  a 
year,  and  clothes  must  run  into  an  extra  hundred. 

*I  could  give  it  up,'  she  thought.  But  the  idea 
disappeared  at  once.  A  flat  would  be  cheaper,  but  it 
meant  unending  difficulties ;  it  was  not  for  nothing 
that  Zoe,  Lissa  and  Duckie  envied  her.  And  the 
rose-covered  pergola !  Besides  it  would  mean  saving 
a  hundred  a  year  or  so ;  and,  from  her  point  of  view, 
even  two  hundred  and  fifty  a  year  was  not  worth 
saving.  She  was  nearly  twenty-eight,  and  could 
count  on  no  more  than  between  eight  and  twelve 
years  of  great  attractiveness.  This  meant  that,  with 
the  best  of  luck,  she  could  not  hope  to  amass  much  more 
than  three  thousand  pounds.  And  then?  Weston- 
super-Mare  and  thirty  years  in  a  boarding-house  ? 

She  was  still  full  of  hesitation  and  doubt  as  she 
greeted  Betty  at  lunch.  This  was  a  great  Sunday 
treat  for  the  gentle  P.  R.  R.  girl.  When  she  had 
taken  ofE  her  coat  and  hat,  she  used  to  settle  in  an 
arm-chair  with  an  intimate  feeling  of  peace  and  pro- 
tection. This  particular  day  Betty  did  not  settle 
down  as  usual,  though  the  cushions  looked  soft  and 
tempting  and  a  clear  fire  burned  in  the  grate. 
Victoria  watched  her  for  a  moment.  How  exquisite 
and  delicate  this  girl  looked ;  tall,  very  slim  and 
rounded.  Betty  had  placed  one  hand  on  the  mantel- 
piece, a  small  long  hand  rather  coarsened  at  the 
finger  tips,  one  foot  on  the  fender.  It  was  a  little 
foot,  arched  and  neat  in  the  cheap  boot.  She  had 
bought  new  boots  for  the  occasion  ;  the  middle  of 
the  raised  sole  was  still  white.  Her  face  was  a  little 
flushed,  her  eyes  darkened  by  the  glow. 


330  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  Well,  Betty,'  said  her  hostess  suddenly,  '  when's 
the  wedding  ? ' 

'  Oh,  Vic,  I  didn't  say  .  .  .  how  can  you  .  .  .' 
Her  face  had  blushed  a  tell-tale  red. 

*  You  didn't  say,'  laughed  Victoria,  *  of  course  you 
didn't  say,  shy  bird  !  But  surely  you  don't  thinJs:  I 
don't  know.  You've  met  somebody  in  the  City  and 
you're  frightfully  in  love  with  him.  Now,  honest,  is 
there  anybody  ? ' 

*  Yes  .  .  .  there  is,  but  .  .  .' 

*  Of  course  there  is.    Now,  Betty,  tell  me  all  about  it.' 

*  Oh,  I  couldn't,'  said  Betty,  gazing  into  the  fire. 
*  You  see  it  isn't  quite  settled  yet.' 

'Then  tell  me  what  you're  going  to  settle.  First 
of  all,  who  is  it  ?  ' 

'Nobody  you  know.  I  met  him  at  .  .  .  well  he 
followed  me  in  Finsbury  Circus  one  evening.  .  .  .' 

*  Oh,  naughty,  naughty !     You're  getting  on,  Betty.' 
'  You  mustn't  think  I  encouraged  him,'  said  Betty 

with  a  tinge  of  asperity.  'I'm  not  that  sort.'  She 
stopped,  remembering  Victoria's  profession,  then,  in- 
consequently  :  *  You  see,  he  wouldn't  go  away  and 
.  .  .  now  .  .  .  .' 

'  And  he  was  rather  nice,  wasn't  he  ? ' 

'  Well,  rather.'  A  faint  and  very  sweet  smile  came 
over  Betty's  face.  Victoria  felt  a  little  strangle  in  her 
throat.  She  too  had  thought  her  bold  partner  at  the 
regimental  dance  at  Lympton  rather  nice.  Poor  old 
Dick. 

'  Then  he  got  out  of  me  about  the  P.  R.  R.,'  Betty 
went  on  more  confidently.  'And  then,  would  you 
believe  it,  he  came  to  lunch  every  day !  Not  that  he 
was  accustomed  to  lunch  at  places  like  that,'  she 
added  complacently. 

*  Oh,  a  swell  ? '  said  Victoria. 

*  No,  I  don't  say  that.  He  used  to  go  to  tlie  Lethes, 
before  they  shut  up.  He  lives  in  the  West  End  too, 
in  Notting  Hill,  you  know.' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  331 

*Dear,  dear,  you're  flying  high,  Betty.  But  tell 
me,  what  is  he  like  ?  and  what  does  he  do  ?  and  is 
he  very  handsome  ? ' 

'  Oh,  he's  awfully  handsome,  Vic.  Tall  you  know 
and  very,  very  dark ;  he's  so  gentlemanly  too,  looks 
like  the  young  man  in  First  Words  of  Love.  It's  a 
lovely  picture,  isn't  it  ? ' 

'Yes,  lovely,'  said  Victoria  summarily.  'But  tell 
me  more  about  him.' 

'  He's  twenty-eight.  He  works  in  the  City.  He's 
a  ledger  clerk  at  Anderson  and  Dromo's.  If  he  gets  a 
rise  this  Christmas,  he  .  .  .  well,  he  says  .  .  .' 

'  He  says  he'U  marry  you.' 

'  Yes.'  Betty  hung  her  head,  then  raised  it  quickly. 
*  Oh,  Vic,  I  can't  believe  it.  It's  too  good  to  be  true. 
I  love  him  so  dreadfully  ...  I  just  can't  wait  for 
one  o'clock.  He  didn't  come  on  Wednesday.  I 
thought  he'd  forgotten  me  and  I  was  going  off  my 
head.  But  it  was  all  right,  they'd  kept  him  in  over 
something.' 

*  Poor  little  girl,'  said  Victoria  gently.  *  It's  hard 
isn't  it,  but  good  too.' 

*  Good !  Vic,  when  he  kisses  me  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
going  to  faint.  He's  strong,  you  see.  And  when  he 
puts  his  arms  round  me  I  feel  like  a  mouse  in  a  trap 
.  .  .  but  I  don't  want  to  get  away :  I  want  it  to  go 
on  for  ever,  just  like  that.' 

She  paused  for  a  moment  as  if  listening  to  the 
first  words  of  love.  Then  her  mind  took  a  practical 
turn. 

*  Of  course  we  shan't  be  able  to  live  in  Netting  Hill,' 
she  added.  '  We'll  have  to  go  further  out.  Shepherd's 
Bush  way,  so  as  to  be  on  the  Tube.  And  he  says  I 
shan't  go  to  the  P.  R.  R.  any  more.' 

'  Happy  girl,'  said  Victoria.  '  I'm  so  glad,  Betty ; 
I  hope  .  .  .' 

She  restrained  a  doubt.  *  And  as  you  say  you  can't 
stay  to  tea  1  think  I  know  where  you're  going.' 


33a  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*Well,  yes,  I  am  going  to  meet  him,'  said  Betty 
laughing. 

'  Yes  .  .  .  and  you're  going  to  look  at  little  houses 
at  Shepherd's  Bush.' 

Betty  looked  up  dreamily.  She  could  see  a  two- 
storeyed  house  in  a  row,  with,  a  bay  window,  and  a 
front  garden  where,  winter  or  smnmer,  marigolds  grew. 

After  lunch,  as  the  two  women  sat  once  more  in  the 
boudoir,  they  said  very  little.  Victoria,  from  time  to 
time,  flicked  the  ash  from  her  cigarette.  Betty  did 
not  smoke,  but,  her  hands  clasped  together  in  her  lap, 
watched  a  handsome  dark  face  in  the  coals. 

'And  how  are  you  getting  on,  Vic?'  she  asked 
suddenly.  Swamped  by  the  impetuous  tide  of  her 
own  romance  she  had  not  as  yet  shown  any  interest  in 
her  friend's  affairs. 

'I?     Oh,  nothing  special.     Pretty  fair.' 

*  But,  I  mean  .  .  .  you  said  you  wanted  to  make  a 
lot  of  money  and  .  .  .' 

*  Yes,  I'm  not  badly  off,  but  I  can't  go  on,  Betty. 
I  shall  never  do  any  good  like  this.* 

Betty  was  silent  for  some  minutes.  Her  ingrained 
modesty  made  any  discussion  of  her  friend's  profession 
intolerable.  Vanquished  in  argument,  grudgingly 
accepting  the  logic  of  Victoria's  actions,  she  could  not 
free  her  mind  from  the  thought  that  these  actions 
were  repulsive,  that  there  must  have  been  some 
other  way. 

*  Oh  ?  You  want  to  get  out  of  it  all  .  .  .you  know 
...  I  have  never  said  you  weren't  quite  right, 
but  .  .  .' 

*  But  I'm  quite  wrong  ? ' 

*  No  ...  I  don't  mean  that  ...  I  don't  like  to  say 
that  .  .  .  I'm  not  clever  like  you,  Vic,  but  .  .  .' 

'We've  done  with  all  that,*  said  Victoria  coldly. 
*  I  do  want  to  get  out  of  it  because  it's  getting  me  no 
nearer  to  what  I  want.  I  don't  quite  know  how  to 
do  it.     I'm  not  very  well,  you  know.' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES 


333 


Betty  looked  up  quickly  with  concern  in  lier  face. 
'  Have  those  veins  been  troubling  you  again  ?  * 

*  Yes,  a  little.     I  can't  risk  much  more.' 

*  Then  what  are  you  going  to  do  ? ' 
Victoria  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

*I  don't  know,'  she  said.  *I  never  thought  of  all 
this  when  the  Major  was  alive.' 

'Ah,  there  never  was  anybody  like  him,'  said 
Betty  after  a  pause. 

Victoria  sat  up  suddenly. 

*  Betty,'  she  cried,  *  you're  giving  me  an  idea.' 
'I?  an  idea?' 

*  There  must  be  somebody  like  him.  Why  shouldn't 
I  find  him?; 

Betty  said  nothing.  She  looked  her  stiffest, 
relishing  but  little  the  fathering  upon  her  of  this 
expedient. 

'  But  who  ? '  soliloquised  Victoria.  *  I  don't  know 
anybody.  You  see  Betty,  I  want  lots  and  lots  of 
money.  Otherwise  it's  no  good.  If  I  don't  make  a 
lot  soon  it  will  be  too  late.' 

Betty  still  said  nothing.  Really  she  couldn't  be 
expected.  .  .  .  Then  her  conscience  smote  her ;  she 
ought  to  show  a  little  interest  in  dear,  kind  Vic. 

'Yes,'  she  said.  'But  you  must  know  lots  of 
people.  You  never  told  me,  but  you're  a  swell  and 
all  that.  You  must  have  known  lots  of  rich  men 
when  you  came  to  London.' 

She  stopped  abruptly,  shocked  by  her  own  audacity. 
But  Victoria  was  no  longer  noticing  her;  she  was 
following  with  lightning  speed  a  new  train  of 
thought. 

'  Betty,'  she  cried,  *  you've  done  it.  I've  found 
the  man,' 

*  Have  you  ?  Who  is  it  ?  '  exclaimed  Betty.  She 
was  excited,  unable  in  her  disapproval  of  the  irregular 
to  feel  uninterested  in  the  coming  together  of  women 
and  men. 


334  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

'Never  mind.  You  don't  know  him.  I'll  tell  you 
later.' 

An  extraordinary  buoyancy  seemed  to  pervade 
Victoria.  The  way  out !  she  had  found  the  way  out ! 
And  the  two  little  words  echoed  in  her  brain  as  if 
some  mighty  wave  of  sound  was  rebounding  from 
side  to  side  in  her  skull.  She  was  excited,  so  excited 
that,  as  she  said  goodbye  to  Betty,  she  forgot  to  fix 
their  next  meeting.  She  had  work  to  do  and  would 
do  it  that  very  night. 

As  soon  as  Betty  was  gone  she  dressed  quickly. 
Then  she  changed  her  hat  to  make  sure  she  was 
looking  her  best.  She  went  out  and,  with  hurried 
steps,  made  for  the  Finchley  Road.  There  was  the 
house  with  the  evergreens,  as  well  clipped  as  ever,  and 
the  drive  with  its  clean  gravel.  She  ran  up  the  steps 
of  the  porch,  then  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Her  heart 
was  beating  now.  Then  she  rang.  There  was  a  very 
long  pause  during  which  she  heard  nothing  but  the 
pumping  of  her  heart.  Then  distant  shuffling  foot- 
steps coming  nearer.  The  door  opened.  She  saw  a 
slatternly  woman  .  .  .  behind  her  the  void  of  an 
empty  house.     She  could  not  speak  for  emotion. 

'  Did  you  want  to  see  the  house,  mum  ? '  asked  the 
woman.  She  looked  sour.  Sunday  afternoon  was 
hardly  a  time  to  view. 

'The  house?' 

'  Oh  ...  I  thought  you  come  from  Belfrey's,  mum. 
It's  to  let.' 

The  caretaker  nodded  towards  the  right  and 
Victoria,  following  the  direction,  saw  the  house 
agents'  iDoard.  Her  excitement  fell  as  under  a  cold 
douche. 

'  Oh !  I  came  to  see.  .  .  Do  you  know  where 
Mr  Holt  is?' 

*  Mr  Holt's  dead,  mum.     Died  in  August,  mum,' 

'  Dead  ? '  Things  seemed  to  go  round.  Jack  was 
the  only  son  .  .  .  then  ? 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  335 

'Yes,  mum.  That's  why  they're  letting.  A  fine 
big  'ouse,  mum.  Died  in  August,  mum.  Ah,  you 
should  have  seen  the  funeral.  They  say  he  left  half  a 
million,  mum,  and  there  wasn't  no  will.' 

'  Where  is  Mrs  Holt  and  .  .  .  and  Mr  Holt's  son.' 

The  caretaker  eyed  the  visitor  suspiciously.  There 
was  something  rakish  about  this  young  lady  which 
frightened  her  respectability. 

*  I  can't  say,  mum,'  she  answered  slowly.  *  I  could 
forward  a  letter,  mum,'  she  added. 

'  Let  me  come  in.     I  want  to  write  a  note.' 

The  caretaker  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  stood 
aside  to  let  her  pass. 

'You'll  'ave  to  come  downstairs  mum,'  she  said, 
*  sorry  I'm  all  mixed  up.  I  was  doing  a  bit  of  washing. 
Git  away  Maria,'  to  a  small  child  who  stood  at  the  top 
of  the  stairs. 

In  the  gaslit  kitchen,  surrounded  by  steaming  linen, 
Victoria  wrote  a  little  feverish  note  in  pencil.  The 
caretaker  watched  her  every  movement.  She  liked 
her  better  somehow. 

'  I'll  forward  it  all  right,  mum,'  she  said.  '  Thank 
you  mum.  .  .  .  Oh,  mum,  I  don't  want  you  to  think — ' 
She  was  looking  amazedly  at  the  half  sovereign  in  her 
palm. 

'That's  all  right,'  said  Victoria,  laughing  loudly. 
She  felt  she  must  laugh,  dance,  let  herself  go.  '  Just 
post  it  before  twelve.' 

The  woman  saw  her  to  the  door.  Then  she  looked 
at  the  letter  doubtfully.  It  was  freshly  sealed  and 
could  easily  be  opened.  Then  she  had  a  burst  of 
loyalty,  put  on  a  battered  bonnet,  completed  the 
address,  stamped  the  envelope  and,  walking  to 
the  pillar  box  round  the  corner,  played  Victoria's 
trump  card. 


CHAPTER  XV 

*  And  so,  Jack,  you  haven't  forgotten  me  ? ' 

For  a  minute  Holt  did  not  answer.  He  seemed 
spellbound  by  the  woman  on  the  sofa.  There  she 
lay  at  full  length,  lazy  grace  in  every  curve  of  her 
figure,  in  the  lines  of  her  limbs  revealed  by  the  thin 
sea-green  stuff  which  moulded  them.  This  new 
woman  was  a  very  wonderful  thing. 

*  No,'  he  said  at  length,  '  but  you  have  changed.' 
'Yes?' 

*  You're  different.  You  used  to  be  simple,  almost 
shy.  I  used  to  think  you  very  like  a  big  white  lily. 
Now  you're  like — like  a  big  white  orchid — an  orchid 
in  a  vase  of  jade.' 

*  Poet !  artist ! '  laughed  Victoria.  *  Ah,  Jack,  you'll 
always  be  the  same.  Always  thinking  me  good  and 
the  world  beautiful.' 

*  I'll  always  think  you  good  and  beautiful  too.' 
Victoria  looked  at  him.     He  had  hardly  changed 

at  all.  His  tall  thin  frame  had  not  expanded,  his 
hands  were  still  beautifully  white  and  seemed  as 
aristocratic  as  ever.  Perhaps  his  mouth  appeared 
weaker,  his  eyes  bluer,  his  face  fairer  owing  to  his 
black  clothes. 

'  I'm  glad  to  see  you  again,  Kathleen  Mavourneen,* 
she  said  at  length. 

*  Why  did  you  wait  so  long  ? '  asked  Holt.  '  It  was 
cruel,  cruel.     You  know  what  I  said — I  would — ' 

'No,  no,'  interrupted  Victoria  fearing  an  avowal. 

*  I  couldn't.     I've  been  through  the  miU.     Oh,  Jack, 

336 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  33? 

it  was  awful.  I've  been  cold,  hungry,  ill;  I've 
worked  ten  hours  a  day — I've  swabbed  floors.' 

A  hot  flush  rose  in  Holt's  fair  cheeks. 

'  Horrible,'  he  whispered,  '  but  why  didn't  you  tell 
me.     I'd  have  helped,  you  know  I  would.' 

*Yes,  I  know,  but  it  wouldn't  have  done.  No, 
Jack,  it's  no  good  helping  women.  You  can  help 
men  a  bit ;  but  women,  no.  You  only  make  them 
more  dependent,  weaker.  If  women  are  the  poor, 
frivolous,  ignorant  things  they  are,  it's  because  they've 
been  protected  or  told  they  ought  to  want  to  be 
protected.  Besides,  I'm  proud.  I  wasn't  coming 
back  to  you  until  I  was — well  I'm  not  exactly  rich, 
but—'  ^ 

She  indicated  the  room  with  a  nod  and  Holt, 
following  it,  sank  deeper  into  wonder  at  the  room 
where  everything  spoke  of  culture  and  comfort. 

*  But  how — ? '  he  stammered  at  last,  '  how  did 
you — ?  what  happened  then  ?  ' 

Victoria  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

'  Don't  ask  me  just  now.  Jack,'  she  said,  '  I'll  tell 
you  later.  Tell  me  about  yourself.  What  are  you 
doing  ?  and  where  is  your  mother  ?  ' 

Holt  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  He  would  have 
liked  to  cross-question  her,  but  he  was  the  second 
generation  of  a  rising  family  and  had  learned  that 
questions  must  not  be  pressed. 

'  Mother  ?  '  he  said  vaguely.  '  Oh,  she's  gone  back 
to  Rawsley.  She  never  was  happy  here.  She  went 
back  as  soon  as  pater  died ;  she  missed  the  tea  fights, 
you  know,  and  Bethlehem  and  all  that.' 

'It  must  have  been  a  shock  to  you  when  your 
father  died.' 

'  Yes,  I  suppose  it  was.  The  old  man  and  I  didn't 
exactly  hit  it  off  but,  somehow — those  things  make 
you  realise — ' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  said  Victoria  sympathetically.  The 
similarity    of    deaths    among    the    middle    classes! 


S38  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Every  woman  in  the  regiment  had  told  her  that 
'these  things  make  you  realise'  when  Dicky  died. 
*  But  what  about  you  ?    Are  you  still  in — in  cement? ' 

*  In  cement ! '  Jack's  lip  curled.  '  The  day  my 
father  died  I  was  out  of  cement.  It's  rather  awful, 
you  know,  to  think  that  my  freedom  depended  on  his 
death.' 

*  Oh,  no,  life  depends  on  death,'  said  Victoria 
smoothly.  '  Besides,  we  are  members  of  one  another ; 
and  when,  like  you.  Jack,  we  are  a  minority,  we  suffer.' 

Holt  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  He  did  not  quite 
understand  her ;  she  had  hardened,  he  thought. 

*No,'  he  went  on,  'I've  done  with  the  business. 
They  turned  it  into  a  limited  liability  company  a 
month  ago.  I'm  a  director  because  the  others  say 
they  must  have  a  Holt  in  it ;  but  directors  never  do 
anytliing,  you  know.' 

'And  you  are  going  to  do  like  the  charwoman, 
going  to  do  nothing,  nothing  for  ever  ? ' 

*  No,  I  don't  say  that.  I've  been  writing — verses 
you  know,  and  some  sketches.' 

'Writing?  You  must  be  happy  now,  Jack.  Of 
course  you'll  let  me  see  them  ?     Are  they  published?' 

'  Yes.  At  least  Amershams  will  bring  out  some 
sonnets  of  mine  next  month.' 

'And  are  you  going  to  pass  the  rest  of  your  life 
writing  sonnets  ? ' 

'No,  of  course  not.  I  want  to  travel.  I'll  go 
South  this  winter  and  get  some  local  colour.  I  might 
write  a  novel.' 

His  head  was  thrown  back  on  the  cushion,  looking 
out  upon  the  blue  southern  sky,  the  bluer  waters 
speckled  as  with  foam  by  remote  white  sails. 

'You  might  give  me  a  cigarette,  Jack,'  said 
Victoria.     '  They  re  in  that  silver  box,  there.' 

He  handed  her  the  box  and  struck  a  match.  As 
he  held  it  for  her  his  eyes  fastened  upon  the  shapely 
whiteness  of  her  hands,  her  pink  polished  finger 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  339 

nails,  the  roundness  of  lier  forearm.  Soft  feminine 
scents  rose  from  her  hair ;  he  saw  the  dark  tendrils 
over  the  nape  of  her  neck.  Oh,  to  bury  his  lips  in 
that  warm  white  neck  !  His  hand  trembled  as  he 
lit  his  own  cigarette  and  Victoria  marked  his 
heightened  colour. 

'  You'll  come  and  see  me  often,  Jack,  won't  you  ? ' 

'  May  I  ?  It's  so  good  of  you.  I'm  not  going  South 
for  a  couple  of  months.' 

'Yes,  you  can  always  telephone.  You'll  find  me 
there  under  Mrs  Ferris.' 

Holt  looked  at  her  once  more. 

*  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  prying.  But,  you 
wrote  me  saying  I  was  to  ask  for  Mrs  Ferris.  I  did, 
of  course,  but,  you  .  .  .  you're  not.  .  .  .  ?  ' 

'Married?  No,  Jack.  Don't  ask  me  anything 
else.     You  shall  know  everything  soon.' 

She  got  up  and  stood  for  a  moment  beside  his 
chair.     His  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  hands. 

'  There,'  she  said,  *  come  along  and  let  me  shew  you 
the  house,  and  my  pictures,  and  my  pack  of  hounds.' 

He  followed  her  obediently,  giving  its  meed  of 
praise  to  all  her  possessions.  He  did  not  care  for 
animals ;  he  lacked  the  generation  of  culture  which 
leads  from  cement-making  to  a  taste  for  dogs.  The 
French  engravings  on  the  stairs  surprised  him  a  little. 
He  had  a  strain  of  puritanism  in  him  running  straight 
from  Bethlehem,  which  even  the  reading  of  Swinburne 
and  Baudelaire  had  not  quite  eradicated.  A  vague 
sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  made  him  think  that 
somehow  these  were  not  the  pictures  a  lady  should 
hang ;  she  might  keep  them  in  a  portfolio.  Other- 
wise, there  were  the  servants.  .  .  . 

*  And  what  do  you  think  of  my  bedroom  ? '  asked 
Victoria  opening  the  door  suddenly. 

Holt  stood  nervously  on  the  threshold.  He  took  in 
its  details  one  by  one,  the  blue  paper,  the  polished 
mahogany,  the  flowered  chintzes,  the  long  glass,  the 


340  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

lace  curtains ;  it  all  looked  so  comfortable,  bo 
luxuiious  as  to  eclipse  easily  the  rigidly  good  but 
ugly  things  he  had  been  used  to  from  birth  onwards. 
He  looked  at  the  dressing  table  too,  covered  with  its 
many  bottles  and  brushes ;  then  he  started  slightly 
and  again  a  hot  flush  rose  over  his  cheeks.  With  an 
effort  he  detached  his  eyes  from  the  horrid  thing 
he  saw. 

'Very  pretty,  very  pretty,'  he  gasped.  Without 
waiting  for  Victoria  he  turned  and  went  downstairs. 

Within  the  next  week  they  met  again.  Jack  took 
no  notice  of  her  for  four  days,  and  then  suddenly 
telephoned  asking  her  to  dine  and  to  come  to  the 
theatre.  She  was  still  in  bed  and  she  felt  low- 
spirited,  full  of  fear  that  her  trump  would  not  make. 
She  accepted  with  an  alacrity  that  she  regretted  a 
minute  later,  but  she  was  drowning  and  could  not 
dally  with  the  lifebelt.  Her  preparation  for  the 
dinner  was  as  elaborate  as  that  which  had  heralded 
her  capture  of  Cairns,  far  more  elaborate  than  any  she 
made  for  the  Vesuvius  where  insolent  beauty  is 
a  greater  asset  than  beauty  as  such.  This  time  she 
put  on  her  mauve  frock  with  the  heavily  embroidered 
silver  shoulder  straps ;  she  wore  little  jewellery,  merely 
a  necklet  of  chased  old  silver  and  amethysts,  and  a 
ring  figuring  a  silver  chimera  with  tiny  diamond 
eyes.  As  she  surveyed  herself  in  the  long  glass,  the 
holy  calm  which  comes  over  the  perfectly-dressed 
flowed  into  her  soul  like  a  river  of  honey.  She  was 
immaculate,  and  from  her  unlined  white  forehead  to 
her  jewel-buckled  shoes  she  was  beautiful  in  every 
detail.  Subtle  scent  followed  her  like  a  train- 
bearer. 

The  entire  evening  was  a  tribute.  From  the 
moment  when  Holt  set  eyes  upon  her  and  reluctantly 
withdrew  them  to  direct  the  cabman,  until  they  drove 
back  through  the  night,  she  was  conscious  of  the 
wave  of  adulation  that  broke  at  her  feet.    Men's 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  341 

eyes  followed  her  every  movement,  drank  in  every 
rise  and  fall  of  her  breast,  strove  to  catch  sight  of  her 
teeth,  flashing  white,  ruby  cased.  Her  progress 
through  the  dining  hall  and  the  stalls  was  imperial 
in  its  command.  As  she  saw  men  turn  to  look  at  her 
again,  women  even  grudgingly  analyse  her,  as 
homage  rose  round  her  like  incense,  she  felt 
frightened  ;  for  this  seemed  to  be  her  triumphant 
night,  the  zenith  of  her  beauty  and  power,  and 
perhaps  its  very  intensity  showed  that  it  was  her 
Bwan  song.     She  felt  a  pain  in  her  left  leg. 

Jack  Holt  passed  that  evening  at  her  feet.  A 
fearful  exultation  was  upon  him.  The  neighbour- 
hood of  Victoria  was  magnetic  ;  his  heart,  his  senses, 
his  aesthetic  sense  were  equally  enslaved.  She 
realised  everything  he  had  dreamed,  beauty,  culture, 
grace,  gentle  wit.  It  hurt  him  physically  not  to  tell 
that  he  loved  her  still,  that  he  wanted  her,  that  she 
was  everything.  He  revelled  in  the  thought  that  he 
had  found  her  again,  that  she  liked  him,  that  he 
would  see  her  whenever  he  wanted  to,  perhaps  join 
his  life  with  hers  ;  then  fear  gripped  his  uneven  soul, 
fear  that  he  was  only  her  toy,  that  now  she  was  rich 
she  would  tire  of  him  and  cast  him  into  a  world 
swept  by  the  icy  blasts  of  regret.  And  all  through 
ran  the  horribly  suggestive  memory  of  that  which  he 
had  seen  on  the  dressing  table. 

Victoria  was  conscious  of  all  this  storm,  though 
unable  to  interpret  its  squalls  and  its  lulls.  Without 
efEort  she  played  upon  him  ;  alternately  encouraging 
the  pretty  youth,  bending  towards  him  to  read  his 
programme  so  that  he  conld  feel  her  breath  on  his 
cheek,  and  drawing  up  and  becoming  absorbed  in 
the  play.  In  the  darkness  she  felt  his  hand  close 
over  hers  ;  gently  but  firmly  she  freed  herself.  As 
they  drove  back  to  St  John's  Wood  they  hardly 
exchanged  a  word.  Victoria  felt  tired ;  for  in  the 
dark,  away  from  the  crowds,  the  music,  the  admiration 


342  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

of  her  fellows,  reaction  had  full  play.  Holt  found  he 
could  Bay  nothing,  for  every  nerve  in  his  body  was 
tense  with  excitement.  A  hundred  words  were  on 
his  lips  but  he  dared  not  breathe  them  for  fear  of 
breaking  the  spell, 

*  Come  in  and  have  a  whisky  and  soda  before  you 
go,'  said  Victoria  in  a  matter  of  fact  tone  as  he  opened 
the  garden  gate. 

He  could  not  resist.  A  wonderful  feeling  of  intimacy 
overwhelmed  him  as  he  watched  her  switch  on  the 
lights  and  bring  out  a  decanter,  a  syphon  and  glasses. 
She  put  them  on  the  table  and  motioned  him  towards 
it,  placing  one  foot  on  the  fender  to  warm  herself 
before  the  glowing  embers.  His  eyes  did  not  leave 
hers.  There  was  a  surge  of  blood  in  his  head.  One 
of  his  hands  fixed  on  her  bare  arm  ;  with  the  other 
he  drew  her  towards  him,  crushed  her  against  his 
breast ;  she  lay  imresisting  in  his  arms  while  he 
covered  her  lips,  her  neck,  her  shoulders,  with  hot 
kisses,  some  quick  and  passionate,  others  lingering, 
full  of  tenderness.  Then  she  gently  repulsed  him 
and  freed  herself. 

Jack,'  she  said  softly,  *  you  shouldn't  have  done 
that.     You  don't  know  .  .  .  you  don't  know  .  .  .* 

He  drew  his  hand  over  liis  forehead.  His  brain 
seemed  to  clear  a  little.  The  maddening  mystery  of 
it  all  formed  into  a  question. 

'  Victoria,  why  are  those  two  razors  on  your  dressing 
table?' 

She  looked  at  him  a  brief  space.  Then,  very 
quietly,  with  the  deliberation  of  a  surgeon, 

'Need  yot  ask?  Do  you  not  understand  what 
1  am  ? ' 

His  eyes  went  up  towards  the  ceiling ;  his  hands 
clenched ;  a  queer  choked  sound  escaped  from  his 
throat.  Victoria  saw  him  suffer,  wounded  as  an 
aesthete,  wounded  in  his  traditional  conception  of 
purity,  prejudiced,  ununderstanding.     For  a  second 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  343 

she  hated  him  as  one  hates  a  howling  dog  on  whose 
paw  one  has  trodden. 

'  Oh,'  he  gasped,  '  oh.' 

Victoria  watched  him  through  her  downcast  eye- 
lashes. Poor  boy,  it  had  to  come.  Pandora  had 
opened  the  chest.  Then  he  looked  at  her  again  with 
returning  sanity. 

*  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  ?  I  can't  bear  it. 
You,  whom  I  thought.  ...  I  can't  bear  it.' 

'  Poor  boy.'    She  took  his  hand.    It  was  hot  and  dry. 

*  I  can't  bear  it,'  he  repeated  dully. 

*  I  had  to.     It  was  the  only  way.' 

'There  is  always  a  way.  It's  awful.'  His  voice 
broke. 

'Jack,'  she  said  softly,  'the  world's  a  hard  place 
for  women.  It  takes  from  them  either  hard  labour 
or  gratification.  I've  done  my  best.  For  a  whole 
yeai*  I  worked.  I  worked  ten  hours  a  day,  I've 
starved  almost,  I've  swabbed  floors.  .  .  .' 

He  withdrew  his  hand  with  a  jerk.  He  could  bear 
that  even  less  than  her  confession. 

'  Then  a  man  came,'  she  went  on  relentlessly,  '  a 
good  man  who  offered  me  ease,  peace,  happiness. 
I  was  poor,  I  was  ill.  What  could  I  do  ?  Then  he 
died  and  I  was  alone.  What  could  I  do  ?  Ah,  don't 
believe  mine  is  a  bed  of  roses.  Jack  ! ' 

He  had  turned  away,  and  was  looking  into  the 
dying  fire.  His  ideals,  his  prejudices,  all  were  in 
the  melting  pot.  Here  was  the  woman  who  had  been 
his  earliest  dream,  degraded,  irretrievably  soiled. 
Whatever  happened  he  could  not  forget;  not  even 
love  could  break  down  the  terrific  barrier  which 
generations  of  hard  and  honest  men  of  Rawsley  had 
erected  in  his  soul  between  straight  women  and  the 
others.  But  she  was  the  dream  stiU :  beautiful,  all 
that  his  heart  desired ;  such  that  (and  he  felt  it  like 
an  awful  taunt)  he  could  not  give  her  up. 

He  looked  at  her,  at  her  sorrowful  face.     No,  he 


344  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

could  not  let  her  pass  out  of  his  life.  He  thought  of 
disjointed  things.  He  could  see  his  mother's  face, 
the  black  streets  of  Rawsley;  he  thought  of  the 
pastor-at  Bethlehem  denouncing  sin.  All  his  standards 
were  jarred.  He  had  nothing  to  hold  on  to  while 
everything  seemed  to  slip :  ideals,  resolutions,  dreams ; 
nothing  remained  save  the  horrible  sweetness  of  the 
mermaid's  face. 

*  Let  me  think,'  he  said  hoarsely,  *  let  me  think.' 

Victoria  said  nothing.  He  was  in  hands  stronger 
than  hers.  He  was  fighting  his  tradition,  the  blood 
of  the  Covenanters,  for  her  sake.  Nothing  that  she 
could  say  would  help  him ;  it  might  impede  him. 
He  had  turned  away ;  she  could  see  nothing  of  his 
face.     Then  he  looked  into  her  eyes. 

'  What  was  can  never  be  again,'  he  said ;  *  what 
I  dreamed  can  never  be.  You  were  my  beacon  and 
my  hope.  I  have  only  found  you  to  lose  you.  If 
I  were  to  marry  you  there  would  always  be  that 
between  us,  the  past.' 

'Then  do  not  marry  me.  I  do  not  ask  you  to.' 
Her  voice  went  down  to  a  whisper  and  she  put  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders.  *  Let  me  be  another,  a  new 
dream,  less  golden,  but  sweet.' 

She  put  her  face  almost  against  his,  gazing  into 
his  eyes.  '  Do  not  leave  this  house  and  I  will  be 
everything  for  you.' 

She  felt  a  shudder  run  through  him  as  if  he  would 
repel  her,  but  she  did  not  relax  her  hold  or  her  gaze. 
She  drew  nearer  to  him,  and  inch  by  inch  his  arms 
went  round  her.  For  a  second  they  swayed  close 
locked  together.  As  they  fell  into  the  deep  arm  chair 
her  loose  black  hair  uncoiled,  and,  falling,  buried 
their  faces  in  its  shadow. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

The  montlis  wliicli  followed  emerged  but  slowly  from 
blankness  for  these  two  who  had  joined  their  lives 
together.  Both  had  a  difficulty  in  realising,  the 
woman  that  she  had  laid  the  coping  stone  of  her 
career,  the  man  that  he  was  happy  as  may  be  an 
opium  eater.  The  first  days  were  electric,  hectic. 
Victoria  felt  limp,  for  her  nerves  had  been  worn  down 
by  the  excitement  and  the  anxiety  of  making  sure  of 
her  conquest.  The  reaction  left  her  rather  depressed 
than  glowing  with  success.  Jack  was  beyond 
scruples  ;  he  felt  that  he  had  passed  the  Rubicon. 
He  was  false  to  his  theories  and  his  ideals,  in  revolt 
against  his  upbringing.  At  the  outset  he  revelled  in 
the  thought  that  he  was  cutting  himself  adrift  from 
the  ugly  past.  It  was  joyful  to  think  that  the  pastor 
in  his  whitewashed  barn  would  covertly  select  him 
as  a  text.  For  the  first  time  in  his  fettered  life  he 
saw  that  the  outlaw  alone  is  free ;  both  he  and 
Victoria  were  outlaws,  but  she  had  tasted  the  bitter- 
ness of  ostracism  while  he  was  still  at  the  stage  of 
welcoming  it. 

As  the  v/eeks  wore,  however,  Victoria  realised  her 
position  better  and  splendid  peace  flowed  in  upon  her. 
She  did  not  love  Holt ;  she  began  even  to  doubt 
whether  she  could  love  any  man  if  she  could  not  love 
him,  this  handsome  youth  with  the  delicate  soul, 
grace,  generosity.  It  was  not  his  mental  weakness 
that  repelled  her,  for  he  was  virile  enough  ;  nor  was 
it   the   touch   of    provincialism   against    which    his 

34J 


346  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

intelligence  struggled.  It  was  rather  that  he  did 
not  attract  her.  He  was  clever  enough,  well  read, 
kind,  but  he  lacked  magnetism ;  he  had  nothing  of 
the  slumberous  fire  which  distinguished  Farwell. 
His  passion  was  personal,  his  outlook  theoretical  and 
limited ;  there  was  nothing  purposeful  in  his  ideas. 
He  had  no  message  for  her.  In  no  wise  did  he  repel 
her,  though.  Sometimes  she  would  take  his  face 
between  her  hands,  look  awhile  into  the  blue  eyes 
where  there  always  lurked  some  wistfuhiess,  and  then 
kiss  him  just  once  and  quickly,  without  knowing 
why. 

'  Why  do  you  do  that,  Vicky  ?  '  he  asked  once. 

She  had  not  answered  but  had  merely  kissed  his 
cheek  again.  She  liardly  knew  how  to  tell  him  that 
she  sighed  because  she  could  only  consent  to  love 
him  instead  of  offering  to  do  so.  While  he  was  sunk 
in  his  daily  growing  ease  she  was  again  thinking  of 
ultimate  ends  and  despised  herself  a  little  for  it.  She 
had  to  be  alone  for  a  while  before  she  could  regain 
self-control,  remember  the  terrible  tyranny  of  man 
and  her  resolve  to  be  free.  Gentle  Jack  was  a  man, 
one  of  the  oppressors,  and  as  such  he  must  be  used 
as  an  instrument  against  his  sex.  The  very  ease  with 
which  she  swayed  him,  with  which  she  could  foresee 
her  victory,  unnerved  her  a  1  ittle.  When  she  answered 
his  hesitating  question  as  to  how  much  she  needed 
to  live,  she  had  to  force  herself  to  lie,  to  trade  on  his 
enslavement  by  asking  him  for  two  thousand  a  year. 
She  dared  to  name  the  figure,  for  Whitaker  told  her 
that  the  only  son  of  an  intestate  takes  two-thirds  of 
the  estate  ;  the  book  had  also  put  her  on  the  track  of 
the  registration  of  joint-stock  companies.  A  visit  to 
Somerset  House  enabled  her  to  discover  that  some 
three  hundred  thousand  shares  of  Holt's  Cement 
Works,  Ltd.,  stood  in  the  name  of  John  Holt ;  as  they 
were  quoted  in  the  paper  something  above  par  he 
could  hardly  be  worth  less  than  fifteen  thousand  a  year. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  347 

She  had  expected  to  have  to  explain  her  needs,  to 
have  to  exaggerate  her  rent,  the  cost  of  her  clothes, 
but  Holt  did  not  say  a  word  beyond  '  all  right.'  She 
had  told  him  it  hurt  her  to  take  money  from  him  ;  and 
that,  so  as  to  avoid  the  subject,  she  would  like  him  to 
tell  his  bankers  to  pay  the  monthly  instalments  into 
her  account.  He  had  agreed  and  then  talked  of  their 
trip  to  the  South.  Clearly  the  whole  matter  was 
repugnant  to  him.  As  neither  wanted  to  talk  about 
it  the  subject  was  soon  almost  forgotten. 

They  left  England  early  in  December  after  shutting 
up  the  house.  Victoria  did  not  care  to  leave  it  in 
charge  of  Laura,  so  decided  to  give  her  a  three 
months'  holiday  on  full  pay ;  Augusta  accompanied 
them.  The  sandy-haired  German  was  delighted  with 
the  change  in  the  fortunes  of  her  mistress.  She  felt 
that  Holt  must  be  very  rich,  and  doubted  not  that  her 
dowry  would  derive  some  benefit  from  him.  Snoo 
and  Poo  were  left  in  Laura's  charge.  Victoria  paid 
a  quarter's  rent  in  advance,  also  the  rates  ;  insured 
against  burglary,  and  left  England  as  it  settled  into 
the  winter  night. 

The  next  three  months  were  probably  the  most 
steadily  happy  she  had  ever  known.  They  had  taken 
a  small  house  known  as  the  Villa  Mehari  just  outside 
Algiers.  A.  French  cook  and  a  taciturn  Kabyl  com- 
pleted their  establishment.  The  villa  was  a  curious 
compromise  between  East  and  West,  Its  architect 
had  turned  out  similar  ones  in  scores  at  Argenteuil 
and  Saint  Cloud,  saving  the  minaret  and  the  deep 
verandah  which  faced  the  balmy  west.  From  the 
precipitous  little  garden  where  orange  and  lime  trees 
bent  beneath  their  fruit  among  the  underbrush  of 
aloes  and  cactus,  they  could  see,  far  away,  the 
estranging  sea. 

The  Kabyl  had  slung  a  hammock  for  Victoria 
between  a  gate-post  and  a  gigantic  clump  of  palm 
treeB.     There  she  passed  most  of  her  days,  lazily 


348  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

swinging  in  the  breeze  which  tumbled  her  black  hair ; 
while  Jack,  lying  at  her  feet  in  the  crisp  rough  grass, 
looked  long  at  her  sun-warmed  beauty.  The  days 
seemed  to  fly,  for  they  were  hardly  conscious  of  the 
recurrence  of  life.  It  was  sunrise,  when  it  was  good 
to  go  into  the  garden  and  see  the  blue  green 
night  blush  softly  into  salmon  pink,  then  burst 
suddenly  into  tropical  radiance :  then,  vague  occupa- 
tions, a  short  walk  over  stony  paths  to  a  caf^  where 
the  East  and  West  met ;  unexpected  food ;  sleep 
in  the  heat  of  the  day  under  the  nets  beyond  which 
the  crowding  flies  buzzed ;  then  the  waning  of  the 
day,  the  heat  settling  more  leaden  ;  sunset,  the  cold 
snapping  suddenly,  the  night  wind  carrying  little 
puffs  of  dust,  and  the  muezzin,  hands  aloft,  droning, 
his  face  towards  the  East,  praises  of  his  God. 

Holt  was  totally  happy.  He  felt  he  had  reached 
Capua,  and  not  even  a  thought  of  his  past  life  could 
disturb  him.  He  asked  for  nothing  now  but  to  live 
without  a  thought,  eating  juicy  fruit,  smoking  for 
an  hour  the  subtle  narghile  ;  he  loved  to  bask  in  the 
radiance  of  the  African  sun  of  Victoria's  beauty,  which 
seemed  to  expand,  to  enwrap  him  in  perfunoie  like  a 
heavy  narcotic  rose.  In  the  early  days  he  tried  to 
work,  to  attune  himself  to  the  pageant  of  sunlit 
life.  His  will  refused  to  act,  and  he  found  he  could 
not  write  a  line  ;  even  rhymes  refused  to  come  to  him. 
Without  an  effort  almost  he  resigned  himself  into  the 
soft  hands  of  the  East.  He  even  exaggerated  his 
acceptance  by  clothing  himself  in  a  burnous  and 
turban,  by  trying  to  introduce  Algerian  food,  couscous, 
roast  kid,  date  jam,  pomegranate  jelly.  At  times  they 
would  go  into  Algiers,  shop  in  the  Rue  Bab-Azoum, 
or  search  for  the  true  East  in  what  the  French  called 
the  high  town.  But  Algiers  is  not  the  East ;  and  they 
quickly  returned  to  the  Villa  Mehari,  stupefied  by  the 
roar  of  the  trams,  the  cries  of  the  water  and  chestnut 
vendors,  all  their  senses  offended  by  the  cafes  on  the 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  349 

wharf  -v^^here  sailors  from  every  land  drank  vodka, 
arrack,  pale  ale,  among  zouaves  and  chassem-s 
d'Afrique. 

Sometimes  Holt  would  go  into  Algiers  by  himself 
and  remain  away  all  day.  Victoria  stayed  at  the 
villa  careless  of  flying  time,  desultorily  reading  Heine 
or  sitting  in  the  garden  where  she  could  play  with 
the  golden  and  green  beetles.  Her  solitude  was 
complete,  for  Holt  had  avoided  the  British  consul  and 
of  course  knew  none  of  the  Frenchmen.  She  watched 
the  current  of  her  life  flow  away,  content  to  know 
that  all  the  while  her  little  fortune  was  increasing. 
England  was  so  far  as  to  seem  in  another  world. 
Christmas  was  gone  ;  and  the  link  of  a  ten  poimd  note 
to  Betty,  to  help  to  furnish  the  house  at  Shepherd's 
Bush,  had  faded  away.  When  she  was  alone,  those 
days,  she  could  not  throw  her  mind  back  to  the  ugly, 
brutish  past,  so  potently  was  the  influence  of  the  East 
growing  upon  her  being.  Then  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening  Jack  would  return,  gay,  and  anxious  to  see 
her,  to  throw  his  arms  round  her  and  hold  her  to 
him  again.  Those  were  the  days  when  he  brought 
her  some  precious  offering,  aqua-marines  set  in  hand- 
wrought  gold,  or  chaplets  of  strung  pearls. 

*  Jack,'  she  said  to  him  one  day  as  he  lay  in  the 
grass  at  her  feet,  '  do  you  then  love  me  very  much  ? ' 

*  Very  much.'  He  took  her  hand  and,  raising 
himself  upon  his  elbow,  gravely  kissed  it. 

'Why?' 

*  Because  you're  all  the  poetry  of  the  world. 
Because  you  make  me  dream  dreams,  my  Aspasia.' 

She  gently  stroked  his  dark  hair. 

*  And  to  think  that  you  are  one  of  the  enemy.  Jack  ! ' 

*  One  of  the  enemy?  what  do  you  mean  ? ' 

*  Man  is  woman's  enemy,  Jack.  Our  relation  is  a 
war  of  sex.' 

'  It's  not  true.'    Jack  flushed ;  the  idea  was  repulsive. 
*It  is  true.     Man  dominates  woman  by  force,  by 


350  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

man-made  law ;  lie  restricts  her  occupations ;  he 
limits  her  chances  ;  he  judges  of  her  attire ;  he  denies 
her  the  right  to  be  ugly,  to  be  old,  to  be  coarse,  to 
be  vicious.* 

*  But  you  wouldn't — ' 

*  I'd  have  everything  the  same,  Jack.* 
Holt  thought  for  a  moment. 

'Yes,  I  suppose  we  do  keep  them  down.  But 
they're  different.     You  see,  men  are  men  and — ' 

*I  know  the  rest.  But  never  mind,  Jack  dear, 
you're  not  like  the  othere.  You'll  never  be  a 
conqueror.' 

Then  she  muzzled  him  with  her  hand,  and,  kissing 
its  scented  palm,  he  thought  no  more  of  the  stem 
game  in  which  they  were  the  shuttlecocks. 

The  spring  was  touching  Europe  with  its  wings ;  and 
here  already  the  summer  was  bursting  the  seed  pods, 
the  sap  breaking  impatiently  through  the  branches. 
All  the  wet  warmth  of  the  brief  African  blooming  ran 
riot  in  thickening  leaf.  The  objective  of  Jack's  life, 
influenced  as  he  was  by  the  air,  was  Victoria  and  the 
ever  more  consuming  love  he  bore  her ;  the  minutes 
only  counted  when  he  was  by  her  side,  watching  her 
every  movement,  inhaling,  touching  her.  All  his 
energies  seem  to  have  been  driven  into  this  narrow 
channel.  He  was  ready  to  move  or  to  remain  as 
Victoria  might  direct;  he  spoke  little,  he  basked. 
Thus  he  agreed  to  extending  their  stay  for  a  month ; 
he  agreed  to  shorten  it  by  a  fortnight  when  Victoria, 
suddenly  realising  that  her  life  force  was  wasting 
away  in  this  enervating  atmosphere,  decided  to  go 
home. 

Victoria's  progress  to  London  was  like  the  march  of 
a  conqueror.  She  stopped  in  Paris  to  renew  her 
clothes.  There  Jack  knew  houi*s  of  waiting  in  the 
hired  victoria  while  his  queen  was  trying  on  frocks. 
He  showed  such  a  childish  joy  in  it  all  that  she  in- 
dulged her  fancy,  her  every  whim ;  dresses,  wraps,  lace 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  351 

veils,  furs,  hats  massive  with  ostrich  feathers,  aigrettes, 
delicate  kid  boots,  gilt  shoes,  amassed  in  their  suite. 
Jack  egged  her  on ;  he  rioted  too.  Often  he  would 
stop  the  victoria  and  rush  into  a  shop  if  he  saAv  some- 
thing he  liked  in  the  window,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
return  with  it,  excitedly  demanding  praise.  He  did 
not  seem  to  understand  or  care  for  money,  to  have 
any  wants  except  cigarettes.  He  followed,  and  in  his 
beautiful  dog-like  eyes  devotion  daily  grew. 

They  entered  London  on  a  bustling  April  day.  A 
biting  east  wind  carried  rain  drops  and  sunshine.  As 
it  stung  her  face  and  whipped  her  blood,  Victoria 
found  the  old  fierce  soiil  reincarnating  itself  in  her. 
She  opened  her  mouth  to  take  in  the  cold  English 
air,  to  bend  herself  for  the  finishing  of  her  task. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

It  was  in  London  that  the  real  battle  began.  In 
Algiers  the  scented  winds  made  hideous  and  un- 
natural all  thoughts  of  gain.  On  arriving  in  London 
Victoria  ascertained  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure  that  her 
bank  had  received  a  thousand  pounds  since  October. 
After  disposing  of  a  few  small  debts  and  rene^vang 
some  trifles  in  the  house,  she  found  herself  a  capitalist : 
she  had  about  fifteen  hundred  poimds  of  her  own. 
The  money  was  lying  at  the  bank  and  it  only 
struck  her  then  that  the  time  had  come  to  invest  it. 
Her  interview  with  the  manager  of  her  branch  was 
a  delightful  experience  ;  she  was  almost  bursting  Avith 
importance,  and  his  courteous  appreciation  of  his 
increasingly  wealthy  client  was  something  more  than 
balm.  It  was  a  foretaste  of  the  power  of  money. 
She  had  known  poor  men  respected,  but  not  poor 
women ;  now  the  bank  manager  was  giving  her 
respectful  attention  because  she  had  fifteen  hundred 
pounds. 

'  You  might  buy  some  industrials,'  he  said. 

'  Industrials  ?     What  are  they  ? ' 

*  Oh,  all  sorts  of  things.     Cotton  mills,  iron  works, 
trading  companies,  anything.' 

'Cement  works?'   she    asked    with    a    spark    of 
devilry. 

*  Yes,  cement  works  too,'  said  the  manager  without 
moving  a  muscle. 

'But  do  you  caU  them  safe?'  she  asked,  returning 
to  business. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  353 

*0h,  fairly.  Of  course  there  are  bad  years  and 
good.  But  the  debentures  are  mostly  all  right  and 
some  of  the  prefs.' 

Victoria  thought  for  a  moment.  Reminiscences  of 
political  economy  told  her  that  there  were  booms 
and  slumps. 

'  Has  trade  been  good  lately  ?  '  she  asked  suddenly. 

*  No,  not  for  the  last  two  years  or  so.  It's  picking 
up  though.  .  .  .' 

'Ah,  then  we're  in  for  a  cycle  of  good  trade.  I 
think  I'll  have  some  industrials.  You  might  pick 
me  out  the  best.' 

The  manager  seemed  a  little  surprised  at  this 
knowledge  of  commercial  crises  but  said  nothing 
more,  and  made  out  a  list  of  securities  averaging 
six  per  cent  net. 

*And  please  buy  me  a  hundred  P.  R.  R.  shares,' 
added  Victoria. 

She  could  have  laughed  at  the  manager's  stony  face 
because  he  did  not  see  the  humour  of  this.  He 
merely  said  that  he  would  forward  the  orders  to 
a  stockbroker. 

Victoria  felt  that  she  had  put  her  hand  to  the 
plough.  She  was  scoring  so  heavily  that  she  never 
now  wished  to  turn  back.  Holt  was  every  day 
growing  more  dreamy,  more  absorbed  in  his  thoughts. 
He  never  seemed  to  quicken  into  action  except  when 
his  companion  touched  him.  He  grew  more  silent 
too ;  the  hobbledehoy  was  gone.  He  was  at  his 
worst  when  he  had  received  a  letter  bearing  tbe 
Rawsley  postmark.  Victoria  knew  of  these,  for 
Holt's  need  of  her  grew  greater  every  day ;  he  was 
now  living  at  Elm  Tree  Place.  He  hardly  left  the 
house.  He  got  up  late  and  passed  the  morning  in  the 
boudoir,  smoking  cigarettes,  desultorily  reading  and 
nursing  the  Pekingese  which  he  now  liked  better. 
But  on  the  days  when  he  got  letters  from  Rawsley, 
letters  so  bulky  that  they  were  sometimes  insufficiently 


354  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

stamped,  lie  would  go  out  early  and  only  return  at 
night.  Then,  however,  he  returned  as  if  he  had  been 
running,  full  of  some  nameless  fear  ;  he  would  strain 
Victoria  to  him  and  hold  her  very  close,  burying  his 
face  below  the  bedclothes  as  if  he  were  afraid.  On  one 
of  those  days  Victoria  accidentally  saw  him  come  out  of 
a  small  dissenting  chapel  near  by.  He  did  not  see 
her,  for  he  was  walking  away  like  a  man  possessed ; 
she  said  nothing  of  this  but  understood  liim  better, 
having  an  inkling  that  the  fight  against  the  Rawsley 
tradition  was  still  going  on. 

She  did  not,  however,  allow  herself  to  be  moved  by 
his  struggle.  It  behoved  her  to  hold  him,  for  he  was 
her  last  chance  and  the  world  looked  rosy  round  her. 
As  the  spring  turned  into  simimer  he  became  more 
utterly  hers. 

*  You  distil  poison  for  me,'  he  said  one  day  as  they 
sat  by  the  rose  hung  pergola. 

*  No,  Jack,  don't  say  that,  it's  the  elixir  of  life.' 

*  The  elixir  of  life.  Perhaps,  but  poison  too.  To 
make  me  live  is  to  make  me  die,  Victoria ;  we  are 
both  sickening  for  death  and  to  hasten  the  current  of 
life  is  to  hasten  our  doom.' 

'Live  quickly,'  she  whispered,  bending  towards 
him  ;  *  did  you  live  at  all  a  year  ago  ? ' 

*No,  no.'  His  arms  were  round  her  and  his  lips 
insistent  on  hers.  He  frightened  her  a  little,  though. 
She  would  have  to  take  him  away.  She  had  already 
confided  this  new  trouble  to  Betty  when  the  latter 
came  to  see  her  in  April,  but  Betty,  beyond  suggest- 
ing cricket,  had  been  too  full  oE  her  own  affairs. 
Apparently  these  were  not  going  very  well.  Anderson 
&  Dromo's  had  not  granted  the  rise,  and  the  marriage 
had  been  postponed.  Meanwhile  she  was  still  at  the 
P.  R.  R.,  and  very,  very  happy.  Betty  too,  her  baby, 
her  other  baby,  frightened  Victoria  a  little.  She  was 
so  rosy,  so  pretty  now,  and  there  was  something 
defiant  and  excited  about  her  that  might  presage 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  355 

disease.  But  Betty  had  not  come  near  her  for  the 
last  two  months. 

About  the  middle  of  June  she  took  Jack  away  to 
Broadstairs.  He  was  willing  to  go  or  stay,  just  as 
she  liked.  He  seemed  so  neutral  that  Victoria 
experimented  upon  him  by  presenting  him  with  a 
sheaf  of  unpaid  bills.  He  looked  at  them  languidly 
and  said  he  supposed  they  must  be  paid,  asked  her 
to  add  them  up  and  wrote  a  cheque  for  the  full 
amoimt.  Apparently  he  had  forgotten  all  about  the 
allowance,  or  did  not  care. 

Broadstairs  seemed  to  do  him  good.  Except  at  the 
week  end  the  Hotel  Sylvester  was  almost  empty.  The 
sea  breeze  blew  stiffly  from  the  north  or  the  east. 
His  colour  increased  and  once  more  he  began  to 
talk.  Victoria  encouraged  him  to  take  long  walks 
alone  along  the  front.  She  had  some  occupation,  for 
two  little  girls  who  were  there  in  charge  of  a  Swiss 
governess  had  adopted  the  lovely  lady  as  their 
aunt.  A  new  sweetness  had  come  into  her  life, 
shrill  voices,  the  clinging  of  little  hands.  Some- 
times these  four  would  walk  together,  and  Holt 
would  run  with  the  children,  tumbling  in  the  sand 
in  sheer  merriment. 

*  You  seem  all  right  again,  Jack,'  said  Victoria  on 
the  tenth  morning. 

'  Right !     Rather,  by  jove,  it's  good  to  live,  Vicky.' 
'  You  were  a  bit  o£E  colour,  you  know.' 

*  I  suppose  I  was.  But  now,  I  feel  nothing  can 
hold  me.  I  wrote  a  rondeau  this  morning  on  the  pier. 
Want  to  see  it  ?  ' 

'  Of  course,  silly  boy.  Aren't  you  going  to  be  the 
next  great  poet  ?  ' 

She  read  the  rondeau,  scrawled  in  pencil  on  the 
back  of  a  bill.     It  was  delicate,  a  little  colourless. 

'  Lovely,'  she  said,  *  of  course  you'll  send  it  to  the 
Westminster.^ 

'Perhaps  .  .  .  hulloa,  there  are  the  kiddies.'    He 


356  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

ran  off  down  the  steps  from  the  front.  A  minute 
after  Victoria  saw  him  helping  the  elder  girl  to  bury 
her  little  sister  in  the  sand, 

Victoria  felt  much  reassured.  He  was  normal 
again,  the  half  wistful,  half  irresponsible  boy  she  had 
once  known.  He  slept  well,  laughed,  and  his  crying 
need  for  her  seemed  to  have  abated.  At  the  end  of 
the  fortnight  Victoria  was  debating  whether  she  should 
take  him  home.  She  was  in  the  hotel  garden  talking 
to  the  smaller  girl,  telling  her  a  wonderful  story 
about  the  fairy  who  lived  in  the  telephone  and  said 
ping-pong  when  the  line  was  engaged.  The  little 
girl  sat  upon  her  knee  ;  when  she  laughed  Victoria's 
heart  bounded.  The  elder  girl  came  through  the 
gate  leading  a  good-looking  young  woman  in  white 
by  the  hand. 

*  Oh,  mummie,  here's  auntie,'  cried  the  child, 
dragging  her  mother  up  to  Victoria.  The  two 
women  looked  at  one  another. 

*  They  tell  me  you  have  been  very  kind  .  .  .'  said 
the  woman.     Then  she  stopped  abruptly. 

*  Of  course,  mummie,  she's  not  really  our  auntie/ 
said  the  child  confidentially. 

Victoria  put  the  small  girl  down.  The  mother 
looked  at  her  again.  She  seemed  so  nice  and  refined 
.  .  .  yet  her  husband  said  that  the  initials  on  the 
trunks  were  different  .  .  .  one  had  to  be  careful. 

*  Come  here,  Celia,'  she  said  sharply.  '  Thank 
you,'  she  added  to  Victoria.  Then  taking  her  little 
girls  by  the  hand  she  took  them  awaj. 

Jack  willingly  left  Broadstairs  that  afternoon  when 
Victoria  explained  that  she  was  tired  and  that 
something  had  made  her  low-spirited. 

'  Right  oh ! '  he  said.  '  Let's  go  back  to  town.  I 
want  to  see  Amershams  and  find  out  how  those 
sonnets  have  sold.' 

He  then  left  her  to  wire  to  Augusta. 

Their    life  in  town  resumed  its  former  course, 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  357 

interrupted  only  by  a  month  in  North.  Devon.  Jack's 
cure  was  complete  ;  lie  was  sunburnt,  fatter  ;  the  joy 
of  life  shone  in  his  blue  eyes.  Sometimes  Victoria 
found  herself  growing  younger  by  contagion,  slough- 
ing the  horrible  miry  coat  of  the  past.  If  her  heart 
had  not  been  atrophied  she  would  have  loved  the  boy 
whom  she  always  treated  with  motherly  gentleness. 
His  need  of  her  was  so  crying,  so  total,  that  he  lost  all 
his  self-consciousness.  He  would  sit  unblushing  by 
her  side  in  the  bow  of  a  fishing  smack,  holding  her 
hand  and  looking  raptly  into  her  grey  eyes  ;  he  was 
indifferent  to  the  red  brown  fisherman  with  the 
Spanish  eyes  and  curly  black  hair  who  smiled  as  the 
turtle  doves  clustered.  His  need  of  her  was  as  mental 
as  it  was  physical ;  his  body  was  whipped  by  the  salt 
air  to  seek  in  her  arms  oblivion,  but  his  mind  had 
become  equally  dependent.     She  was  his  need. 

Thus  when  they  came  back  to  town  the  riot  con- 
tinued ;  and  Victoria,  breasting  the  London  tide, 
dragged  him  unresisting  in  her  rear.  She  hated 
excitement  in  every  form,  excitement  that  is  of  the 
puerile  kind.  Restaurant  dining,  horse  shows,  flower 
shows,  the  Academy,  tea  in  Bond  Street,  even  the 
theatre  and  its  most  inane  successes,  were  for  her 
a  weariness  to  the  flesh. 

'  I've  had  enough,'  she  said  to  Jack  one  day.  '  I'm 
sick  of  it  all.  I've  got  congestion  of  the  appreciative 
sense.  One  day  I  shall  chuck  it  all  up,  go  and  live 
in  the  country,  have  big  dogs  and  a  saddle  horse, 
dress  in  tweeds  and  read  the  local  agricultural  rag.' 

.'  Give  up  smoking,  go  to  church,  and  play  tennis 
with  the  curate,  the  doctor  and  the  squire's  flapper,' 
added  Holt.     '  But  Vicky,  why  not  go  now  ?  ' 

*No,  oh,  no,  I  can't  do  that.'  She  was  frightened 
by  her  own  suggestion.  '  I  must  drain  the  cup  of 
pleasure  so  as  to  be  sure  that  it's  all  pain ;  then  I'll 
retire  and  drain  the  cup  of  resignation  .  ,  .  unless, 
as  I  sometimes  think,  it's  empty.' 


358  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Jack  had  said  nothing  to  this.  Her  wildness 
surprised  and  shocked  him.  She  was  bo  savage  and 
yet  so  sweet. 

Victoria  realised  that  she  must  hold  fast  to  the 
town,  for  there  alone  could  she  succeed.  In  the  peace 
of  the  country  she  would  not  have  the  opportunities 
she  had  now.  Jack  was  in  her  hands.  She  never 
hesitated  to  ask  for  money,  and  Jack  responded  without 
a  word.  Her  account  grew  by  leaps  and  bounds. 
The  cashier  began  to  ask  whether  she  wanted  to  see 
the  manager  when  she  called  at  the  bank.  She  could 
see,  some  way  off  but  clearly,  the  beacons  on  the 
coast  of  hope. 

All  through  Jack's  moods  she  had  suffered  from 
the  defection  of  Betty.  On  her  return  from  Broad- 
stairs  she  had  written  to  her  to  come  to  Elm  Tree 
Place,  but  had  received  no  answer.  This  happened 
again  in  September ;  and  fear  took  hold  of  her,  for 
Betty  had,  ivy-like,  twined  herself  very  closely  round 
Victoria's  heart  of  oak.  She  went  to  Finsbury ;  but 
Betty  had  gone,  leaving  no  address.  She  went  to  the 
P.R.R.  also.  The  place  had  become  ghostly,  for  the 
familiar  faces  had  gone.  The  manageress  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen ;  nor  was  Nelly,  probably  by  now  a 
manageress  hei-self.  Betty  was  not  there,  and  the 
girl  who  wonderingly  served  the  beautiful  lady  with 
a  tea-cake  said  that  no  girl  of  that  name  was  employed 
at  the  depot.  Then  Victoria  saw  herself  sitting  in 
the  churchyard  of  her  past,  between  the  two  dear 
ghosts  of  Farwell  and  Betty.  The  customers  had 
changed,  or  their  faces  had  receded  so  that  she  knew 
them  no  more :  they  stiU  played  matador  and  fives 
and  threes,  chess  too.  Alone  the  chains  remained 
which  the  ghosts  had  rattled.  Silently  she  went 
away,  turning  over  that  leaf  of  her  life  for  ever. 
Farwell  was  dead,  and  Betty  gone — married  probably — 
and  in  Shepherd's  Bush,  not  daring  to  allow  Victoria's 
foot  to  sully  the  threshold  of  *  First  Words  of  Love.' 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  359 

Her  conviction  that  Betty  was  false  had  a  kind  of 
tonic  effect  upon  her.  She  was  alone  and  herself 
again  ;  she  realised  that  the  lonely  being  is  the  strong 
being.  Now,  at  last,  she  could  include  the  last  woman 
she  had  known  in  the  category  of  those  who  threw 
stones.     And  her  determination  to  be  free  grew  apace. 

She  invented  a  reason  every  day  to  extract  money 
from  Holt.  He,  blindly  desirous,  careless  of  money, 
acceded  to  every  fresh  demand.  Now  it  was  a  faked 
bill  from  Barbezan  Soeurs  for  two  hundred  pounds, 
now  the  rent  in  arrear,  a  blue  rates  notice,  an  offhand 
request  for  a  fiver  to  pay  the  servants,  the  vet's  bill 
or  the  price  of  a  cab.  Holt  drew  and  overdrew.  If 
a  suspicion  ever  entered  his  mind  that  he  was  being 
exploited,  he  dismissed  it  at  once,  telling  himself  that 
Victoria  was  rather  extravagant.  For  a  time  letters 
from  Rawsley  synchronised  with  her  fresh  demands, 
but  repetition  had  dulled  their  effects :  now  Holt 
postponed  reading  them ;  after  a  time  she  saw  him 
thi'ow  one  into  the  fire  unread.  Little  by  little  they 
grew  rarer.  Then  they  ceased.  Holt  was  eaten  up 
by  his  passion,  and  Victoria's  star  rose  high. 

All  conspired  to  favour  her  fortune.  Perhaps  her 
acumen  had  helped  her  too,  for  she  had  seen  correctly 
the  coming  boom.  Trade  rose  by  leaps  and  bounds ; 
every  day  new  shops  seemed  to  open ;  the  stalks  of 
the  Central  London  Railway  could  be  seen  belching 
clouds  of  smoke  as  they  ground  out  electric  power ; 
the  letter-box  at  Elm  Tree  Place  was  clogged  with 
circulars  denoting  by  the  fury  of  their  competion 
that  trade  was  flying  as  on  a  great  wind.  Other 
signs  too  were  not  wanting :  the  main  streets  of 
London  were  blocked  by  lorries  groaning  under 
machinery,  vegetables,  stone ;  immense  queues  formed 
at  the  railway  stations  waiting  for  the  excursion 
trains  ;  above  all,  rose  the  sound  of  gold  as  it  hissed 
and  sizzled  as  if  molten  on  the  pavements,  flowing 
into  the  pockets  of  merchants,  bankers  and  share- 


36o  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

liolders.  All  the  women  at  the  Vesuvius  indulged  in 
new  clothes. 

Victoria's  investments  were  seized  by  the  current. 
She  had  not  entirely  followed  the  bank  manager's 
advice.  Seeing,  feeling  the  movement,  she  had 
realised  most  of  her  debentures  and  turned  them  into 
shares.  One  of  her  ventures  collapsed,  but  the 
remainder  appreciated  to  an  extraordinary  extent.  At 
last,  in  the  waning  days  of  the  year  her  middle-class 
prudence  reasserted  itself.  She  knew  enough  of 
political  economy  to  be  ready  for  the  crash ;  she 
realised.  One  cold  morning  in  November  she  counted 
up  her  spoils.     She  had  nearly  five  thousand  pounds. 

Meanwhile,  while  her  blood  was  aglow.  Holt  sank 
further  into  the  dullness  of  his  senses.  A  mania  was 
upon  him.  Waking,  his  thought  was  Victoria  ;  and 
the  cry  for  her  rose  everlasting  from  his  racked  body. 
She  was  all,  she  was  everywhere ;  and  the  desire  for 
her,  for  her  beauty,  her  red  lips,  soaked  into  him  like 
a  philtre,  narcotic  and  then  fiery  but  ever  present, 
intimate  and  exacting.  He  was  her  thing,  her  toy, 
the  paltry  instrument  which  responded  to  her  every 
touch.  He  rejoiced  in  his  subjection ;  he  swam  in 
his  passion  like  a  pilgrim  in  the  Ganges  to  find  brief 
oblivion  ;  but  again  the  thirst  was  on  liim,  ravaging, 
ever  demanding  more.  More,  more,  ever  more,  in 
the  watches  of  the  night,  when  ice  seizes  the  world 
to  throttle  it — among  all,  in  turmoil  and  in  peace — he 
tossed  upon  the  passionate  sea;  with  one  thought, 
one  hope. 


CHAPTER  XVni 

'I'm  glad  we're  going  away,  Jack,'  said  Victoria  lean- 
ing back  in  th.e  cab  and  looking  at  him  critically. 
*  You  look  as  if  you  wanted  a  change.' 

*  Perhaps  I  do,'  said  Jack. 

Victoria  looked  at  him  again.  He  had  not  smiled 
as  he  spoke  to  her,  which  was  unusual.  He  seemed 
thinner  and  more  delicate  than  ever,  with  his  pale 
face  and  pink  cheekbones.  His  black  hair  shone  as 
if  moist ;  and  his  eyes  were  bigger  than  they  had  ever 
been,  blue  like  silent  pools  and  surrounded  by  a 
mauve  zone.  His  mouth  hung  a  little  open.  Yet,  in 
spite  of  his  weariness,  he  held  her  wrist  in  both  his 
hands,  and  she  could  feel  his  fingers  searching  for 
the  opening  in  her  glove. 

'You  are  becoming  a  responsibility,'  she  said 
smiling.     '  I  shall  have  to  be  a  mother  to  you.* 

A  faint  smile  came  over  his  lips. 

*A  mother?  After  all,  why  not?  Phedra.  .  .  .' 
His  eyes  fixed  on  the  grey  morning  sky  as  he  followed 
his  thought. 

The  horse  was  trotting  sharply.  The  winter  air 
seemed  to  rush  into  their  bodies.  Jack,  well  wrapped 
up  as  he  was  in  a  fur  coat,  shrank  back  against  the 
warm  roundness  of  her  shoulder.  In  an  access  of 
gentleness  she  put  her  free  hand  in  his. 

'Dear  boy,'  she  said  softly  bending  over  him. 

But  there  was  no  tenderness  in  Jack's  blue  eyes, 
rather  lambent  fire.  At  once  his  grasp  on  her  hand 
tightened  and  his  lips  mutely  formed  into  a  request. 

361 


962  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Casting  a  glance  right  and  left  slie  kissed  him  quickly 
on  the  mouth. 

Up  on  the  roof  their  bags  jolted  and  bumped  one 
another ;  milk  carts  were  rattling  their  empty  cans 
as  they  returned  from  their  round  ;  far  away  a  drum 
and  file  band  played  an  acid  air.  They  were  going 
to  Ventnor  in  pursuit  of  the  blanketed  sun ;  and  Victoria 
rejoiced,  as  they  passed  through  Piccadilly  Circus 
where  moisture  settled  black  on  the  fountain ,  to  think 
that  for  three  days  she  would  see  the  sun  radiate,  not 
loom  as  a  red  guinea.  They  passed  over  Waterloo 
Bridge  at  a  foot  pace ;  the  enormous  morning  traffic 
was  struggling  in  the  neck  of  the  bottle.  The  pressure 
was  increased  because  the  road  was  up  between  it  and 
Waterloo  Station.  On  her  left,  over  the  parapet, 
Victoria  could  see  the  immense  desert  of  the  Thames 
swathed  in  thin  mist,  whence  emerged  in  places  masts 
and  where  massive  barges  loomed  passive  like 
derelicts.  She  wondered  for  a  moment  whether  her 
familiar  symbol,  the  old  vagrant,  still  sat  crouching 
against  the  parapet  at  Westminster,  watching  rare 
puffs  of  smoke  curling  from  his  pipe  into  the  cold  air. 
The  cab  emerged  from  the  crush,  and  to  avoid  it  the 
cabman  turned  into  the  little  black  streets  which  line 
the  wharf  on  the  east  side  of  the  bridge,  then  doubled 
back  towards  Waterloo  through  Cornwall  Road. 
There  they  met  again  the  stream  of  drays  and  carts  ; 
the  horse  went  at  a  foot  pace,  and  Victoria  gazed  at 
the  black  rows  of  houses  with  the  fear  of  a  lost  one. 
So  uniformly  ugly  these  apartment  houses,  with  their 
dirty  curtains,  their  unspeakable  flowerpots  in  the 
parlour  windows.  Here  and  there  cards  announcing 
that  they  did  pinking  within  ;  further,  the  board  of  a 
sweep ;  then  a  good  corner  house,  the  doctor's  probably, 
with  four  steps  and  a  brass  knocker  and  a  tall  slim 
girl  on  her  hands  and  knees  washing  the  steps. 

The  cab  came  to  an  abrupt  stop.  Some  distance 
ahead  a  horse  was  down  on  the  slippery  road ;  shouts 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  363 

cam©  from  the  crowd  around  it.  Victoria  idly 
watched  the  girl,  swinging  the  wet  rag  from  right  to 
left.  Poor  thing.  Everything  in  her  seemed  to  cry  out 
against  the  torture  of  womanhood.  She  was  a  picture 
of  dumb  resignation  as  she  knelt  with  her  back  to 
the  road.  Victoria  could  see  her  long  thin  arms,  her 
hands  red  and  rigid  with  cold,  her  broken-down  shoes 
with  the  punctured  soles  emerging  from  the  ragged 
black  petticoat. 

There  was  a  little  surge  in  the  crowd.  The  girl 
got  up,  and  with  an  air  of  infinite  weariness  stretched 
her  arms.  Then  she  picked  up  the  pail  and  bucket 
and  turned  towards  the  street.  For  the  space  of 
a  second  the  two  women  looked  into  one  another's 
faces.  Then  Victoria  gave  a  muffled  cry  and  jumped 
out  of  the  cab.  She  seized  with  both  hands  the 
girl's  bare  arms. 

*  Betty !  Betty  ! '  she  faltered. 

A  burning  blush  covered  the  girl's  face  and  her 
features  twitched.  She  made  as  if  to  turn  away  from 
the  detaining  hands. 

'  Vicky,  what  are  you  doing  .  .  .  what  does  this 
mean  ?  '  came  Jack's  voice  from  the  cab. 

*  Wait  a  minute.  Jack.  Betty,  my  poor  little  Betty. 
Why  are  you  here  ?     Why  haven't  you  written  to  me  ? ' 

*  Leave  me  alone,'  said  Betty  hoarsely. 

*I  won't  leave  you  alone.  Betty,  tell  me,  what's 
this  ?    Are  you  married  ?  ' 

A  look  of  pain  came  over  the  girl's  face,  but  she 
said  nothing. 

'  Look  here,  Betty,  we  can't  talk  here.  Leave  the 
bucket,  come  with  me.     I'U  see  it's  all  right.' 

*  Oh,  I  can't  do  that.  Oh,  let  me  alone  ;  it's  too 
late.' 

'  I  don't  understand  you.  It's  never  too  late.  Now 
just  get  into  the  cab  and  come  with  me.' 

*I  can't.  I  must  give  notice  .  .  .'  She  looked 
about  to  weep. 


364  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

*  Come  along.'  Victoria  increased  tlie  pressure  on 
the  girl's  arms.  Jack  stood  up  in  tlie  cab.  He 
seemed  as  frightened  as  he  was  surprised. 

*  I  say,  Vicky  .  .  .'  he  began. 

*  Sit  down,  Jack,  she's  coming  with  us.  You  don't 
mind  if  we  don't  go  to  Ventnor  ?  ' 

Jack's  eyes  opened  in  astonishment  but  he  made  no 
reply.     Victoria  pulled  Betty  sharply  down  the  steps. 

*  Oh,  let  me  get  my  things,'  she  said  weakly. 

'No.  They'd  stop  you.  There,  get  in.  Drive 
back  to  Elm  Tree  Place,  cabman.' 

Half  an  hour  later,  lying  at  full  length  on  the 
boudoir  sofa,  Betty  was  slowly  sipping  some  hot 
cocoa.  There  was  a  smile  on  her  tear-stained  face. 
Victoria  was  analysing  with  horror  the  ravages  that 
sorrow  had  wrought  on  her.  She  was  pretty  still, 
with  her  china  blue  eyes  and  her  hair  like  pale  j&ligree 
gold ;  but  the  bones  seemed  to  start  from  her  red 
wrists,  so  thin  had  she  become.  Even  the  smile  of 
exhausted  content  on  her  lips  did  not  redeem  her 
emaciated  cheeks. 

'Betty,  my  poor  Betty,'  said  Victoria,  taking  her 
hand.     '  What  have  they  done  to  you  ? ' 

The  girl  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  as  if  in  a  dream. 

*  Tell  me  all  about  it,'  her  friend  went  on,  *  what 
has  happened  to  you  since  April  ? ' 

*  Oh,  lots  of  things,  lots  of  things.  I've  had  a  hard 
time.' 

*  Yes,  I  see.  But  what  happened  actually  ?  Why 
did  you  leave  the  P.R.R.  ?  ' 

'  I  had  to.    You  see,  Edward  .  .  .'  The  flush  returned. 

'Yes?' 

'Oh,  Vic,  I've  been  a  bad  girl  and  I'm  so,  so 
imhappy.'  Betty  seized  her  friend's  hand  to  raise 
herself  and  buried  her  face  on  her  breast.  There 
Victoria  let  her  sob,  gently  stroking  the  golden  hair. 
She  understood  already,  but  Betty  must  not  be 
questioned    yet.     Little    by  little,   Betty's  weeping 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  365 

grew  less  violent  and  confidence  burst  from  her 
pent  up  soul. 

'  He  didn't  get  a  rise  at  Christmas,  so  he  said  we'd 
have  to  wait  ...  I  couldn't  bear  it  ...  it  wasn't 
his  fault.  I  couldn't  let  him  come  down  in  the 
world,  a  gentleman  ...  he  had  only  thirty  shillings 
a  week.' 

'  Yes,  yes,  poor  little  girl.' 

*  We  never  meant  to  do  wrong  .  .  .  when  baby  was 
coming  he  said  he'd  marry  me  ...  I  couldn't  drag 
him  down  ...  I  ran  away.' 

'  Betty,  Betty,  why  didn't  you  wi'ite  to  me  ? ' 

The  girl  looked  at  her.  She  was  beautiful  in  her 
reminiscence  of  sacrifice. 

'  I  was  ashamed  ...  I  didn't  dare  ...  I  only 
wanted  to  go  where  they  didn't  know  what  I  was.  .  .  . 
I  was  mad.  The  baby  came  too  early  and  it  died 
almost  at  once.' 

'My  poor  little  girl.'  Victoria  softly  stroked  the 
rough  back  of  her  hand. 

*0h,  I  wasn't  sorry  ...  it  was  a  little  girl  .  .  . 
they  don't  want  any  more  in  the  world.  Besides 
I  didn't  care  for  anything ;  I'd  lost  him  .  .  .  and  my 
job.  I  couldn't  go  back.  My  landlady  wrote  me  a 
character  to  go  to  Cornwall  road.' 

'  And  there  I  found  you.' 

*  I  wonder  what  we  are  going  to  do  for  you,'  she 
went  on.     '  Where  is  Edward  now  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  I  couldn't  go  back  ;  I'm  ashamed.  .  .  .' 

*  Nonsense,  you  haven't  done  anything  wrong.  He 
shall  marry  you.' 

'He  would  have,'  said  Betty  a  little  coldly,  'he's 
square.' 

'  Yes,  I  know.  He  didn't  beg  you  very  hard,  did 
he?  However,  never  mind.  I'm  not  going  to  let 
you  go  until  I've  made  you  happy.  Now  I'll  tuck 
you  up  with  a  rug,  and  you're  going  to  sleep  before 
the  fire.' 


366  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Betty  lay  limp  and  unresisting  in  the  ministering 
hands.  The  unwonted  sensations  of  comfort,  warmth 
and  peace  soothed  her  to  sleepiness.  Besides,  she  felt 
as  if  she  had  wept  every  tear  in  her  racked  body. 
Soon  her  features  relaxed,  and  she  sank  into  profound, 
almost  deathlike  slumber, 

Victoria  meanwhile  told  her  story  to  Jack,  who  sat 
in  the  dining  room  reading  a  novel  and  smoking 
cigarettes.  He  came  out  of  his  coma,  as  Victoria 
unfolded  the  tale  of  Betty's  upbringing,  her  struggle 
to  live,  then  love  the  meteor  flashing  through  her 
horizon.  His  cheeks  flushed  and  his  mouth  quivered 
as  Victoria  painted  for  him  the  picture  of  the  girl 
half  distraught,  bearing  the  burden  of  her  shame, 
unable  to  reason  or  to  forsee,  to  think  of  anything 
except  the  saving  of  a  gentleman  from  life  on  thirty 
bob  a  week. 

*  Something  ought  to  be  done,'  he  said  at  length, 
closing  his  book  with  novel  vivacity. 

*Yes,  but  what?' 

*I  don't  know.'  His  eyes  questioned  the  wall; 
they  grew  vaguer  and  vaguer  as  his  excitement 
decreased,  as  a  ship  in  docks  sinks  further  and 
further  on  her  side  while  the  water  ebbs  away. 

*  You  think  of  something,'  he  said  at  length, 
picking  up  his  book  again.  'I  don't  care  what 
it  costs.' 

Victoria  left  him  and  went  for  a  walk  tlirough  the 
misty  streets  seeking  a  solution.  There  were  not 
many.  She  could  not  keep  Betty  with  her,  for  she 
was  pure  though  betrayed ;  contact  with  the  irregular 
would  degrade  her  because  habit  would  induce  her 
to  condone  that  which  she  morally  condemned.  It 
would  spoil  her  and  would  ultimately  throw  her  into 
a  life  for  which  she  was  not  fitted  because  gentle 
and  unspoiled. 

*No,'  mused  Victoria  as  she  walked,  'like  most 
women,  she  cannot  rule  :  a  man  must  rule  her.     She 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  367 

is  a  reed,  not  an  oak.  All  must  come  from  man, 
both  good  and  evil.  What  man  has  done  man 
must  undo.' 

By  the  time  she  returned  to  Elm  Tree  Place  she 
had  made  up  her  mind.  There  was  no  hope  for 
Betty  except  in  marriage.  She  must  have  her  own 
fireside  ;  and,  from  what  she  had  said,  her  lover  was 
no  villain.  He  was  weak,  probably ;  and,  while  he 
strove  to  determine  his  line  of  conduct,  events  had 
slipped  beyond  his  control.  Perhaps,  though,  it  was 
not  fair  to  deliver  Betty  into  his  hands  bound  and 
defenceless,  bearing  the  burden  of  their  common 
imprudence.  She  was  not  fit  to  be  free,  but  she 
should  not  be  a  slave.  It  might  be  well  to  be  the 
slave  of  the  strong,  but  not  of  the  weak. 

Therefore  Victoria  arrived  at  a  definite  solution. 
She  would  see  the  young  man ;  and,  if  it  was  not 
altogether  out  of  the  question,  he  should  marry  Betty. 
They  should  have  the  little  house  at  Shepherd's  Bush, 
and  Betty  should  be  made  a  free  woman  with  a 
fortune  of  five  hundred  pounds  in  her  own  right, 
enough  to  place  her  for  ever  beyond  sheer  want.  It 
only  struck  Victoria  later  that  she  need  not,  out  of 
quixotic  generosity,  deplete  her  own  store,  for  Holt 
would  gladly  give  whatever  sum  she  named. 

'  Now,  Betty ,'  she  said  as  the  girl  drained  the  glass 
of  claret  which  accompanied  the  piece  of  fowl,  that 
composed  her  lunch,  '  tell  me  your  young  man's  name 
and  Anderson  &  Dromo's  address.  I'm  going  to  see 
him.' 

*  Oh,  no,  no,  don't  do  that.'  The  look  of  fear 
returned  to  the  blue  eyes. 

'  No  use,  Betty,  I've  decided  you're  going  to  be 
happy.  I  shall  see  him  to-day  at  six,  bring  him 
here  to-morrow  at  half  past  two,  as  it  happens  to  be 
Saturday.  You  will  be  married  about  the  thirtieth 
of  this  month.' 

'  Oh,  Vic,  don't  make  me  think  of  it.     I  can't  do 


368  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

it  .  .  .  it's  no  good  now.  Perhaps  he's  forgotten  me, 
and  it's  better  for  him.' 

'  I  don't  think  he's  forgotten  you,'  said  Victoria. 
'  He'll  marry  you  this  month,  and  you'll  eat  your 
Christmas  dinner  at  Shepherd's  Bush.  Don' t  be  shy, 
dear — you're  not  going  empty  handed  ;  you're  going 
to  have  a  dowry  of  five  hundred  pounds.' 

'  Vic !  I  can't  take  it ;  it  isn't  right  .  .  .  you  need 
all  you've  got  .  .  .  you're  so  good,  but  I  don't  want 
him  to  marry  me  if  .  .  .  if.  .  .  .' 

'  Oh,  don't  worry,  I  shan't  tell  him  about  the  money 
until  he  says  yes.  Now,  no  thanks  ;  you're  my  baby, 
besides  it's  going  to  be  a  present  from  Mr  Holt. 
Silence,'  she  repeated  as  Betty  opened  her  mouth,  'or 
rather  give  me  his  name  and  address  and  not  another 
word.' 

'  Edward  Smith,  Salisbury  House,  but.  .  .  .' 

*  Enough.     Now,  dear,  don't  get  up.' 

The  events  of  that  Friday  and  Saturday  formed  in 
later  days  one  of  the  sunbathed  memories  in  Victoria's 
dreary  life.  It  was  all  so  gentle,  so  full  of  sweetness 
and  irresolute  generosity.  She  remembered  every- 
thing, the  wait  in  the  little  dark  room  into  which  she 
was  ushered  by  an  amazed  commissionaire  who  pro- 
fessed himself  willing  to  break  regulations  for  her 
sake  and  hand  Mr  Smith  a  note,  the  banging  of 
her  heart  as  she  realised  her  responsibility  and 
resolved  to  break  her  word  if  necessary  and  to  buy 
a  husband  for  Betty  rather  than  lose  him,  then  the 
quick  interview,  the  light  upon  the  young  man's  face. 

'  Where  is  she  ?  '  he  asked  excitedly.  *  Oh,  why 
did  she  run  away  ?  You  can't  think  what  I've  been 
going  through.' 

*  You  should  have  married  her,'  said  Victoria  coldly, 
though  she  was  moved  by  his  sincerity.  He  was 
handsome,  this  young  man,  with  his  bronzed  face, 
dark  eyes,  regular  features  and  long  dark  hair. 

*0h,  I  would  have  at  once  if  I'd  known.     But  I 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  369 

couldn't  make  up  my  mind ;  only  thirty  bob  a 
week.  .  .  .' 

'  Yes,  I  know,'  said  Victoria  softly,  '  I  used  to  be 
at  the  P.  R.  R.' 

*  You  ? '  The  young  man  looked  at  her  incredulously. 
'  Yes,  but  never  mind  me.     It's  Betty  I've  come  for. 

The  baby  is  dead.  I  found  her  cleaning  the  steps  of 
a  house  near  Waterloo.' 

'My  God,'  said  the  young  man  in  low  tones.  He 
clenched  his  hands  together ;  one  of  his  paper  cufE 
protectors  fell  to  the  floor. 

'  Will  you  marry  her  now  ? ' 

*  Yes  ...  at  once.' 

'Good.  She's  had  a  hard  time,  Mr  Smith,  and  I 
don't  say  it's  entirely  your  fault.  Now  it's  all  going 
to  be  put  square.  I'm  going  to  see  she  has  some 
money  of  her  own,  five  hundred  pounds.  That  will 
help  won't  it  ? ' 

'  Oh,  it's  too  good  to  be  true.  Why  are  you  doing 
all  this  for  us  ?     You're.  .  .  .' 

*  Please,  please,  no  thanks.  I'm  Betty's  friend. 
Let  that  be  enough.  Will  you  come  and  see  her 
to-morrow  at  my  house  ?     Here's  my  card.' 

On  the  last  day  of  November  these  two  were  married 
at  a  registry  office  in  the  presence  of  Victoria  and  the 
registrar's  clerk.  A  new  joy  had  settled  upon  Betty, 
whose  shy  prettiness  was  turning  into  beauty. 
Victoria's  heart  was  heavy  as  she  looked  at  the  couple, 
both  so  young  and  rapt,  setting  out  upon  the  sea 
with  a  cargo  of  glowing  dreams.  It  was  heavy  still 
as  the  cab  drove  off  carrying  them  away  for  a  brief 
week-end,  which  was  all  Anderson  and  Dromo  would 
allow.  She  tasted  a  new  delight  in  this  making  of 
happiness. 

Holt  had  not  attended  the  ceremony,  for  he  felt  too 
weak.  His  interest  in  the  affair  had  been  dim,  for 
he  looked  upon  it  as  one  of  Victoria's  whims.  He  was 
ceasing  to  judge  as  he  ceased  to  appreciate,  so  much 


370  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

was  his  physical  weakness  gaining  upon  him  ;  all  his 
faculty  of  action  was  concentrated  in  the  desire  which 
gnawed  at  his  very  being.  Victoria  reminded  him  of 
his  promise,  and,  finding  his  cheque  book  for  him, 
laid  it  on  the  table. 

'  Five  hundred  pounds,'  she  said.  '  Better  make  it 
out  to  me.     It's  very  good  of  you,  Jack.' 

*  Yes,  yes,'  he  said  dully,  writing  the  date  and  the 
words '  Mrs  Ferris.'  Then  he  stopped.  Concentrating 
with  an  effort  he  wrote  the  word  '  five.' 

'  Five  .  .  .  five  .  .  .'  he  murmured.  Then  he 
looked  up  at  Victoria  with  something  like  vacuousness. 

A  wild  idea  flashed  through  her  brain.  She  must 
act.  Oh,  no,  dreadful.  Yet  freedom,  freedom.  .  .  , 
He  could  not  understand  .  .  .  she  must  do  it. 

'  Thousand,'  she  prompted  in  a  low  voice. 

'  Thousand  pounds,'  went  Jack's  voice  as  he  wrote 
obediently.  Then,  mechanically,  reciting  the  formida 
his  father  had  taught  him :  *  Five,  comma,  0,  0,  0, 
dash,  0,  dash,  0.     John  Holt.' 

Victoria  put  her  hands  down  on  the  table  to  take 
the  cheque  he  had  just  torn  out.  All  her  fingers 
were  trembling  with  the  terrible  excitement  of  a 
slave  watching  his  fetters  being  struck  off.  As  she 
took  it  up  and  looked  at  it,  while  the  figures  danced, 
Holt's  eyes  grew  more  insistent  on  her  other  hand. 
Slowly  his  fingers  closed  over  it,  raised  it  to  his  lips. 
With  his  eyes  closed,  breathing  a  little  deeper,  he 
covered  her  palm  with  lingering  kisses. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

The  endowment  of  Betty  was  soon  completed. 
Advised  by  the  bank  manager  to  whom  she  con- 
fided something  of  the  young  couple's  improvident 
tendencies,  Victoria  vested  the  money  in  a  trust 
administered  by  an  insurance  company.  The  deed 
was  so  drafted  that  it  could  not  be  charged ;  the 
capital  could  not  be  touched,  excepting  the  case  of 
male  offspring  who,  after  their  mother's  death,  would 
divide  it  on  their  respective  twenty-fifth  birthdays ; 
as  she  distrusted  her  own  sex  and  perhaps  still  more 
the  stock  from  which  the  girls  might  spring,  she 
bound  their  proportion  in  pei'petuity ;  failing  off- 
spring she  provided  that,  following  on  his  wife's 
decease,  Mr  Edward  Smith  should  receive  one  fifth  of 
the  capital,  four  fifths  reverting  to  herself. 

Victoria  revelled  somewhat  in  the  technicalities  of 
the  deed ;  every  clause  she  framed  was  a  pleasure  in 
itself ;  she  turned  the  *  hereinbefores '  and  the  '  pre- 
decease as  aforesaids '  round  in  her  mouth  as  if  they 
were  luscious  sweets.  The  pleasure  of  it  was  not 
that  of  Lady  Bountiful  showering  blessings  and  feel- 
ing the  holy  glow  of  charity  penetrate  her  being. 
Victoria's  satisfaction  was  more  vixenish ;  she,  the 
outlaw,  the  outcast,  had  wrested  from  Society  enough 
money  to  indulge  in  the  luxury  of  promoting  a 
marriage,  converting  the  illegal  into  the  legal,  creating 
respectability.  The  gains  that  Society  term  infamous 
were  being  turned  towards  the  support  of  that  Society ; 
still   more,   failing    her   infamous   help,   Betty   and 


37a  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Edward  Smith  would  not  have  achieved  their  coming 
together  with  the  approval  of  the  Law,  their  spiritual 
regeneration  and  a  house  at  Shepherd's  Bush. 

She  was  now  the  mistress  of  a  fortune  of  over  ten 
thousand  pounds,  a  good  half  of  which  was  due  to 
her  final  stratagem.  The  time  had  now  come  for  her 
to  retire  to  the  house  in  the  country  when  she  could 
resume  her  own  name,  piece  together  for  the  sake  of 
the  county  her  career  since  she  left  India  for  Alabama, 
and  read  the  local  agricultural  rag.  Her  plans  were 
postponed,  however,  owing  to  Holt's  state  of  health, 
which  compelled  her,  out  of  sheer  humanity,  to  take 
him  to  a  sunnier  clime.  She  dismissed  Algiers  as 
being  too  far ;  she  asked  Holt  where  he  would  like  to 
go  to,  but  he  merely  replied  '  East  Coast,'  which  in 
December  struck  her  as  being  absurd.  Finally  she 
decided  to  take  him  to  Folkestone,  as  it  was  very  near 
and  he  would  doubtless  like  to  sit  with  the  dogs  on 
the  Leas. 

Folkestone  was  bright  and  sunny.  The  sting  in 
the  glowing  air  brought  fresh  colour  to  Victoria's 
cheeks,  a  deeper  brilliancy  to  her  grey  eyes  ;  she  felt 
well ;  her  back  was  straighter ;  when  a  lock  of  dark 
hair  strayed  into  her  mouth  driven  by  the  high  wind 
it  tasted  salt  on  her  lips.  Sometimes  she  could  have 
leaped,  shouted,  for  life  was  rushing  in  upon  her 
like  a  tide.  Most  days,  however,  she  was  quiet,  for 
Holt  was  not  affected  by  the  sea.  His  listlessness  was 
now  such  that  he  hardly  spoke.  He  would  walk  by 
her  side  vacuously,  looking  at  his  surroundings  as  if 
he  did  not  see  them.  At  times  he  stopped,  con- 
centrated with  an  effort  and  bought  a  bun  from  a 
hawker  to  break  up  for  the  dogs. 

Victoria  noticed  that  he  was  slipping,  with  ununder- 
standing  fear.  The  phenomenon  was  beyond  her. 
Though  the  guests  at  the  hotel  surrounded  her  with 
an  atmosphere  of  admiration,  Holt's  condition  began 
to  occupy  all  her  thoughts.     He  was  thin  now  to  the 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  373 

point  of  showing  bone  under  his  coat,  pale  and  hectic, 
generally  listless,  sometimes  wild-eyed.  He  never 
read,  played  no  games,  talked  to  nobody.  Indeed 
nothing  remained  of  him  save  the  half  physical,  half 
emotional  power  of  his  passion.  Victoria  called  in  a 
doctor,  but  foimd  him  vague  and  shy ;  beyond  cutting 
down  Holt's  cigarettes  he  prescribed  nothing. 

Victoria  resigned  herself  to  the  role  of  a  nurse.  At 
the  beginning  of  January  she  noticed  that  Holt  was 
using  a  stick  to  walk.  The  sight  filled  her  with 
dread.  She  watched  him  on  the  Leas,  walking 
slowly,  resting  the  weight  of  his  body  on  the  staff, 
stopping  now  and  then  to  look  at  the  sea,  or  worse, 
at  a  blank  wall.  A  terrible  impression  of  weakness 
emanated  from  him.  He  was  going  down  the  hill. 
One  morning  in  the  middle  of  January,  Holt  did  not 
get  up.  When  questioned  he  hardly  answered.  She 
dressed  feverishly  without  his  moving,  and  went  out 
to  find  the  doctor  herself,  for  she  was  unconsciously 
afraid  of  the  servants'  eyes.  When  she  returned  with 
the  doctor  Holt  had  not  moved  ;  his  head  was  tlirown 
back,  his  mouth  a  little  open,  his  face  more  waxen 
than  usual. 

'  Oh,  oh.  .  .  .'  Victoria  nearly  screamed,  when 
Holt  opened  his  eyes.  The  doctor  threw  back  the 
bedclothes  and  examined  his  patient.  As  Victoria 
watched  him  inspecting  Holt's  mouth,  the  inside  of 
his  eyelids,  then  his  finger  nails,  a  terror  came  upon 
her  at  these  strange  rites.  She  went  to  the  window 
and  looked  out  over  the  sea ;  it  was  choppy,  grey  and 
foamy  like  a  river  in  spate.  She  strove  to  concentrate 
on  her  freedom,  but  she  could  feel  the  figure  on  the 
bed. 

*  Got  any  sal  volatile  ?  '  said  the  doctor's  voice. 
'No,  shall  I.  .  .  .?' 

*  No,  no  time  for  that,  he's  fainting ;  get  me  some 
salts,  ammonia,  anything.' 

Victoria  watched  him  forcing  Holt  to  breathe  the 


374  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

ammonia  she  used  to  clean  ribbons.  Holt  opened 
his  eyes,  coughed,  struggled  ;  tears  ran  down  his  face 
as  he  inhaled  the  acrid  fumes.  Still  he  did  not  speak. 
The  doctor  pulled  him  out  of  bed,  crossed  his  legs, 
and  then  struck  him  sharply  across  the  shin,  just 
imder  the  knee,  with  the  side  of  his  hand.  Holt's 
leg  hardly  moved.  The  doctor  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
then  pushed  him  back  into  the  bed. 
*I  .  .  .  Mrs.  .  .  .?' 

*  Holt.' 

'Well,  Mrs  Holt,  I'm  afraid  your  husband  is  in 
a  serious  condition.  Of  course  I  don't  say  that  with 
careful  feeding,  tonics,  we  can't  get  him  round,  but 
it'll  be  a  long  business,  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  you 
see  .  .  .  How  long  have  you  been  married  ? ' 

'  Over  a  year,'  said  Victoria  with  an  effort. 

*  Ah.  Well  Mrs  Holt,  it  will  be  part  of  the  cure 
that  you  leave  him  for  six  months.' 

Victoria  gasped.  Why?  Why?  Could  it 
be  .  .  .?  The  thought  appalled  her.  Dimly  she 
could  hear  the  doctor  talking. 

*His  mother  ...  if  he  has  one  .  .  .  today  .  .  . 
phosphate  of  .  .  .' 

Then  the  doctor  was  gone.  A  telegram  had 
somehow  been  sent  to  Rawsley  Cement  Works.  Then 
the  long  day,  food  produced  on  the  initiative  of  the 
hotel  servants,  the  room  growing  darker,  night. 

It  was  ten  o'clock,  and  two  women  stood  face  to 
face  by  the  bed.  One  was  Victoria,  beautiful  like 
a  marble  statue,  with  raven  black  hair,  pale  lips. 
The  other  a  short  stout  figure  with  tight  hair,  a  black 
bonnet,  a  red  face  stained  with  tears. 

*  You've  killed  him,'  said  the  harsh  voice. 
Victoria  looked  up  at  Mrs  Holt. 

•No,  no.' 

*  My  boy,  my  poor  boy ! '  Mrs  Holt  was  on  her 
knees  by  the  side  of  the  motionless  figure. 

Victoria  began  to    weep,   silently   at    first,   then 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  375 

noisily.    Mrs  Holt  started  at  the  sound,  tlien  jumped 
to  her  feet  with  a  cry  of  rage. 

*  Stop  that  crying,'  she  commanded.  *  How  dare 
you  ?    How  dare  you  ?  ' 

Victoria  went  on  crying,  the  sobs  choking  her. 

*  A  murderess,'  Mrs  Holt  went  on.  'You  took  my 
boy  away;  you  corrupted  him,  ruined  him,  killed 
him.  You're  a  vile  thing ;  nobody  should  touch 
you,  you.  .  .  .' 

Victoria  pulled  herself  together. 

'It's  not  my  fault,'  she  stumbled.     ' I  didn't  know.' 

*  Didn't  know,'  sneered  Mrs  Holt,  '  as  if  a  woman  of 
your  class  didn't  know.' 

'That's  enough,'  snarled  Victoria.  'I've  had 
enough.  Understand?  I  didn't  want  your  son.  He 
wanted  me.  That's  all  over.  He  bought  me,  and 
now  you  think  the  price  too  heavy.  I've  been  heaven 
to  him  who  only  knew  misery.  He's  not  to  be  pitied, 
unless  it  be  because  his  mistress  hands  him  over  to 
his  mother.' 

'  How  dare  you  ? '  cried  Mrs  Holt  again,  a  break 
in  her  voice  as  she  pitied  her  outraged  motherhood. 

'  It's  you  who've  killed  him ;  you,  the  family, 
Rawsley,  Bethlehem,  your  moral  laws,  your  religion. 
It's  you  who  starved  him,  ground  him  down  until  he 
lost  all  sense  of  measure,  desired  nothing  but  love 
and  life.' 

'  You  killed  him,  though,'  said  the  mother. 

'Perhaps.  I  didn't  want  to.  I  was  .  .  .  fond  of 
him.  But  how  can  I  help  it  ?  And  supposing  I  did  ? 
What  of  it  ?  Yes,  what  of  it  ?  Who  was  your  son 
but  d  man  ? ' 

'My  son?' 

'  Your  son.  A  distinction,  not  a  title.  Your  son 
bears  part  of  the  responsibility  of  making  me  what 
I  am.  He  came  last  but  he  might  have  come  first, 
and  I  tell  you  that  the  worker  of  the  eleventh  hour 
is  guilty  equally  with  the  worker  of  the  first.     Your 


376  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

son  was  nothing  and  I  nothing  but  pawns  in  the 
game,  little  figures  which  the  Society  you're  so  proud 
of  shifts  and  breaks.  He  bought  my  womanhood ; 
he  contributed  to  my  degradation.  What  else  but 
degradation  did  you  offer  me  ? ' 

Mrs  Holt  was  weeping  now. 

'  I  am  a  woman,  and  the  world  has  no  use  for  me. 
Your  Society  taught  me  nothing.  Or  rather  it  taught 
me  to  dance,  to  speak  a  foreign  language  badly,  to 
make  myself  an  ornament,  a  pleasure  to  man.  Then 
it  threw  me  down  from  my  pedestal,  knowing  nothing, 
without  a  profession,  a  trade,  a  friend,  or  a  penny. 
And  then  your  Society  waved  before  my  eyes  the  lily- 
white  banner  of  purity,  while  it  fed  me  and  treated 
me  like  a  dog.  When  I  gave  it  what  it  wanted,  for 
there's  only  one  thing  it  wants  from  a  woman  whom 
nothing  has  been  taught  but  that  which  every  woman 
knows,  then  it  covered  me  with  gifts.  A  curse  on 
your  Society.  A  Society  of  men,  crushing,  grinding 
down  women,  sweating  their  labour,  starving  their 
brains,  urging  them  on  to  the  surrender  of  what 
makes  a  woman  worth  while.     Ah  .  .  .  ah.  .  .  .' 

Breath  failed  her.  Mrs  Holt  was  weeping  silently 
in  her  hands  in  utter  abandonment. 

'  I'm  going,'  said  Victoria  hoarsely.  She  picked 
up  a  handkerchief  and  dabbed  her  eyes. 

As  she  opened  the  door  the  figure  moved  on  the 
bed,  opened  its  eyes.  Their  last  lingering  look  was 
for  the  woman  at  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XX 

The  squire  of  Cumberleigh  was  not  sorry  that '  The 
Retreat'  had  found  a  tenant  at  last.  The  house 
belonged  to  him,  and  he  might  have  let  it  many- 
times  over ;  but  so  conservative  and  aristocratic  was 
his  disposition  that  he  preferred  to  sacrifice  his  rent 
rather  than  have  anyone  who  was  undesirable  in  the 
neighbourhood.  Yet,  in  the  case  of  the  lady  who 
had  now  occupied  the  house  for  some  three  weeks, 
though  the  strictest  enquiries  had  been  made  con- 
cerning her,  both  in  Cumberleigh  and  the  surrounding 
district,  nothing  could  be  ascertained  beyond  the 
scanty  facts  that  she  was  a  widow,  well-to-do  and 
had  been  abroad  a  good  deal.  The  squire  had  seen 
her  on  two  separate  occasions  himself  and  could  not 
but  admit  that  she  was  far  from  unprepossessing ; 
she  was  obviously  a  lady,  well-bred  and  educated, 
and,  if  her  frock  and  hat  had  been  a  trifle  smarter 
than  those  usually  seen  in  a  country  village,  she  had 
owned  up  to  having  recently  been  to  Paris  to  replenish 
her  wardrobe.  It  was  curious,  when  he  came  to  reflect 
upon  it,  how  little  she  had  told  liim  about  herself,  and 
yet,  what  was  more  curious,  she  had  no  sooner  left 
him  after  the  second  visit  than  he  had  betaken 
himself  to  his  solicitor  to  get  him  to  make  out  the 
lease.  She  had  received  and  signed  it  the  following 
day,  showing  herself  remarkably  business-like,  but 
not  ungenerous  when  it  came  to  the  buying  of  the 
fixtures  and  to  the  vexed  question  of  outdoor  and 
indoor  repairs. 

177 


378  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

As  tlie  squire  climbed  the  hill  that  gave  upon  the 
village  from  the  marshes,  one  cold  March  evening,  he 
did  not  regret  his  decision  ;  for,  standing  in  front  of 
'  The  Retreat,'  he  felt  bound  to  admit  that  there  was 
something  cheering  and  enlivening  in  the  fact  that 
the  four  front  windows  now  flaunted  red  curtains 
and  holland  blinds,  where  they  had  been  so  dark  and 
forbidding.  In  the  lower  one  on  the  left,  where  the 
lamps  had  not  yet  been  lighted  or  the  blinds  drawn 
down,  in  the  light  of  the  dancing  fire,  he  could  see 
distinctly  a  woman's  workbox  on  a  small  inlaid  table, 
a  volume  of  songs  on  the  cottage  piano,  and,  at  the 
back  of  the  room,  a  hint  of  china  tea  cups,  glistening 
silver  and  wliite  napery.  Presently  a  trim  maid  came 
out  to  bolt  the  front  door,  followed  by  two  snuffling 
yellow  dogs  who  took  the  air  for  a  few  moments  in 
tempestuous  spirits,  biting  each  other  about  the 
neck  and  ears  and  rushing  round  in  giddy  circles  on 
the  tiny  grass  plot  until,  in  response  to  a  call  from  the 
maid,  they  returned  with  her  to  the  house.  They 
were  foreigners  evidently,  these  dogs!  The  squire 
could  not  remember  the  name  of  the  breed,  but  he 
thought  he  had  seen  one  of  the  kind  before  in  London. 
He  was  not  quite  sure  he  approved  of  foreign  dogs; 
they  were  not  so  sporting  or  reliable  as  those  of  the 
English  breeds ;  still,  these  were  handsome  fellows, 
well  kept  and  (from  the  green  ribbons  that  adorned 
their  fluffy  necks)  evidently  made  much  of.  He  was 
still  looking  after  the  dogs  when  he  was  joined  by  the 
curate  coming  out  of  the  blacksmith's  cottage  opposite 
and  stopping  to  light  a  match  in  the  shelter  of  the 
high  wall  of  '  The  Retreat.' 

*  First  pipe  I  have  had  to-day,'  said  the  new-comer 
as  he  puffed  at  it  luxuriously.  '  It's  more  than  you 
can  say,  squire,  I'll  be  boimd.' 

*  Twenty-first,  that's  more  like  it,'  said  the  squire 
with  a  laugh.  'How  is  Mrs  Johnson?'  This  in 
allusion  to  the  curate's  call  at  the  smithy. 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  379 

*  Dying.  Won't  last  the  night  out,  I  think.  She  is 
quite  unconscious.  Still  I  am  glad  I  went.  Johnson 
and  his  daughters  seemed  to  like  to  have  me  there, 
though  of  course  there  was  nothing  for  me  to  do.' 

'Quite  so,  quite  so,'  said  the  squire  approvingly, 
for  the  village  was  so  small  that  he  took  a  paternal 
interest  in  all  its  inhabitants.     *  Any  more  news  ?  ' 

*  Mrs  Golightly  has  had  twins,  and  young  Shaw  has 
enlisted.  That's  about  all,  I  think.  Oh,  by  the  by, 
I  paid  a  call  here  to-day.'  And  he  indicated  *  The 
Retreat.'  'It  seemed  about  time  you  know,  and  one 
mustn't  neglect  the  new-comers.' 

*  Of  course  not,'  the  squire  assented  with  conviction. 
'Was  she  .  .  .  did  she  in  any  way  indicate  that 
she  was  pleased  to  see  you  ? ' 

'  She  was  very  gracious,  but  she  seemed  to  take  my 
call  quite  as  a  matter  of  course.  A  nice  woma*!!  I 
should  think,  though  a  little  reserved.  However  she 
is  going  to  rent  one  seat  in  church  if  not  more,  and 
she  said  I  might  put  her  name  down  for  one  or  two 
little  things  I  am  interested  in  at  present.' 

'  In  fact  you  made  hay  while  the  sim  shone.  Well, 
after  all,  why  not?  She  didn't  tell  you  anything 
about  herself  I  suppose,  or  her  connections  ? ' 

*  No,  she  never  mentioned  them.  I  understood  or 
she  implied  she  had  been  abroad  a  good  deal  and  that 
her  husband  had  died  some  years  ago.  Still  I  really 
don't  think  we  need  worry  about  her ;  the  whole 
thing,  if  I  may  say  so,  was  so  obviously  all  right,  the 
house  I  mean  and  all  its  appointments.  She  is  a 
quiet  woman,  a  little  shy  and  retiring  perhaps, 
belongs  to  the  old-fashioned  school.' 

*  Well  she  is  none  the  worse  for  that,'  said  the 
squire  with  a  grunt.  *  We  don't  meet  many  of  that 
kind  nowadays.  Even  the  farmers'  daugliters  are 
quite  ready  to  set  you  right  whenever  they  get  a 
chance.  This  modem  education  is  a  curse,  I  have 
said  so  from  the  very  beginning.     StiU  they  haven't 


38o  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

robbed  us  of  our  Church  schools  yet,  if  that  is  any 
consolation.  Coming  back  to  dine  with  me  to-night, 
Seaton  ?  * 

The  yomig  man  shook  his  head.  *  Very  sorry, 
squire,  it's  quite  impossible  to-night.  It  is  Friday 
night,  choir  practice  you  know,  and  there  is  a 
lantern  lecture  in  the  mission  hall.  I  ought  to  be 
there  already,  helping  Grifiin  with  the  slides.' 

*  All  right,  Sunday  evening  then,  at  the  usual  time,' 
said  the  squire  cordially  as  the  curate  left  him,  and, 
as  he  looked  after  him,  he  criticised  him  as  a  busy 
fellow,  not  likely  to  set  the  Thames  on  fire  perhaps, 
but  essentially  the  right  man  in  the  right  place. 

His  own  progress  was  a  good  deal  slower ;  not  that 
he  found  the  hill  too  steep,  for,  in  spite  of  his  fifty 
years,  he  was  still  perfectly  sound  of  wind  and  limb, 
as  was  shown  by  his  athletic  movements,  the  fresh 
healthy  colour  on  his  cheeks,  and  the  clear  blue  of  his 
eyes,  but  rather  because  he  seemed  loth  to  tear  himself 
away  from  '  The  Retreat '  and  his  new  tenant.  Even 
when  he  had  reached  the  little  post  office  that  crowned 
the  summit,  he  did  not  turn  off  towards  his  o^vn  place 
tiU  he  had  spent  another  five  minutes  contemplating 
the  stack  of  chimney-pots  sending  out  thick  puffs  of 
white  smoke  into  the  quiet  evening  sky,  and  listening 
attentively  to  the  cheerful  sound  of  a  tinkling  piano 
blended  with  the  gentle  lowing  of  the  cattle  on  the 
marsh  below.  After  all,  he  told  himself,  he  was  very 
glad  Seaton  had  called,  for  apart  from  his  duty  as  a 
clergyman  it  was  only  a  kind  and  neighbourly  thing 
to  do. 

It  was  a  pity  that  there  were  not  more  of  his  kind 
in  the  neighbourhood,  for  in  spite  of  his  own 
preference  for  the  country,  he  could  imagine  that 
a  woman  coming  to  it  fresh  from  London  at  such 
a  season  might  find  it  dull  and  a  little  depressing. 
He  wondered  if  Mrs  Menzies,  of  Hither  Hall,  would 
call  if  he  asked  her  to  do  so.    Of  course  she  would  in 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  38j 

a  moment  if  he  put  it  on  personal  grounds,  but  that 
was  not  the  point.  All  he  wished  was  to  be  kind 
and  hospitable  to  a  stranger  ;  and  Mrs  Menzies,  much 
as  he  respected  and  admired  her,  had  never  been 
known  to  err  on  the  side  of  tolerance,  nor  did  one 
meet  in  her  drawing-room  anyone  whose  pedigree 
would  not  bear  a  thorough  investigation.  Yes,  there 
was  no  doubt  about  it,  though  the  laws  that 
governed  social  intercourse  were  on  the  whole 
excellent  and  had  to  be  kept,  there  were  here,  as 
everywhere  else  in  life,  exceptions  to  the  rule, 
occasions  when  anyone  of  a  kindly  disposition  must 
feel  tempted  to  break  them.  And  Mrs  Menzies  was 
certainly  a  little  stiff :  witness  her  behaviour  in  the 
case  of  Captain  Clinton's  widow  and  the  fuss  she 
had  made  because  the  unfortunate  lady  had  forgotten 
to  tell  her  of  her  relationship  to  the  Eglinton  Clintons 
and  had  only  vouchsafed  the  fact  that  her  father's 
people  had  been  in  trade.  Why,  it  had  taken  weeks 
if  not  months  to  clear  the  matter  up  ;  and  it  had  been 
very  awkward  for  everybody,  the  Eglinton  Clintons 
included  when  the  truth  had  transpired.  No,  on 
second  thoughts  he  would  not  ask  Mrs  Menzies  to  call ; 
he  would  far  rather  make  the  first  venture  himself  than 
risk  a  snub  for  this  lonely  defenceless  stranger. 

He  turned  into  the  gates  of  Redland  Hall  with  a 
half-formed  intention  of  doing  so  immediately.  He 
dined  alone  as  usual;  it  was  very  rare  that  the 
dining-room  of  Redland  Hall  extended  its  hospitality 
to  anybody  nowadays  ;  for  the  squire,  like  most  men 
over  forty,  had  lost  the  habit  of  entertaining  and 
did  not  know  how  to  recover  it.  A  bachelor  friend 
spent  a  night  with  him  from  time  to  time  ;  the  curate 
supped  with  him  every  Sunday  ;  and  his  sister  came 
for  a  week  or  two  during  the  summer,  when  she 
invariably  told  him  that  the  house  was  too  uncomfort- 
able to  live  in,  and  he  ought  to  have  it  thoroughly 
done  up  and  modernised.     He  invariably  promised 


382  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

to  set  about  it  immediately,  with  the  full  intention 
of  doing  BO ;  but  his  resolution  began  to  weaken  the 
day  on  which  he  saw  her  off  at  the  station,  and 
degenerated  steadily  for  the  remainder  of  the  year. 
That  night,  however,  for  the  first  time  for  many 
months  he  made  a  voyage  of  discovery  into  his  own 
drawing-room.  Yes,  there  was  no  doubt  about  it, 
Selina  was  quite  right  in  calling  it  draughty  and 
uncomfortable  ;  the  gilt  French  furniture  was  shabby 
and  tarnished,  the  Aubusson  carpet  worn,  the  wall 
paper  faded,  the  whole  room  desolate  in  its  suggestion 
of  past  glory.  He  crossed  over  to  the  enormous  grand 
piano,  opened  it  and  struck  a  yellow  key  gently  with 
one  finger.  Was  he  wrong,  he  wondered,  in  thinking  its 
tone  was  lamentably  thin  and  poor  ?  A  rat  scampered 
and  squeaked  in  the  waincoting,  the  windows  rattled 
in  their  loose  sashes ;  he  shut  the  piano  abruptly  and 
left  the  room.  It  would  cost  a  good  deal  to  have 
it  thoroughly  done  up,  of  coiirse ;  but  that  was  not 
the  point.  Who  would  superintend  the  decorations  ? 
He  did  not  trust  his  own  taste  and  had  no  faith 
in  that  of  any  upholsterer.  Selina  would  come  and 
help  him  if  he  asked  her,  though  she  would  think  it 
strange,  for  she  had  paid  her  annual  visit  in  August, 
and  it  was  now  only  March  ;  besides,  if  she  brought 
her  delicate  little  girls  with  her  at  such  a  time  the 
whole  house  would  be  upset  in  arranging  for  their 
comfort.  Still,  Selina  or  no,  he  had  quite  made  up 
his  mind  to  have  the  room  done  up  and  to  buy  a 
new  piano  immediately ;  it  was  ridiculous  to  harbour 
an  instrument  which  was  merely  a  nesting  place  for 
mice.  He  returned  to  the  dining-room,  poured 
himself  out  a  stiff  whiskey  and  soda,  and  dozed  over 
his  Spectator  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Yet,  next 
morning,  even  in  the  imromantic  light  of  day,  he 
was  surprised  to  find  that  his  plan  of  doing  up  the 
drawing-room  still  held  good. 
He  had  intended  to  ride  into  Wetherton  that  day 


A  BED  OF  ROSES  383 

to  try  his  new  mare  across  country,  for  the  gates 
were  high  in  that  direction  and  good  enough 
to  test  her  powers  as  a  jumper,  A  glance  at  the 
glistening  frost  on  the  grass  soon  sufficed,  however, 
to  tell  him  that  his  scheme  could  not  be  carried  out ; 
nor  was  he  sorry  until,  having  spent  the  morning 
on  his  farms  and  inspected  everything  and  everybody 
at  his  leisure,  it  occurred  to  him  with  a  desperate 
sense  of  conviction  that  there  was  still  the  afternoon 
to  be  filled  in  somehow.  About  three  he  set  off  in 
the  direction  of  the  village,  looked  in  at  the  church 
and  had  a  brief  colloquy  with  Seaton  regarding  the 
new  pews  which  were  being  put  up,  interviewed  the 
postmaster,  condoled  with  the  blacksmith  upon  the 
death  of  his  wife,  and  even  ventured  down  as  far  as 
the  marsh  to  see  if  the  new  carrier  who  had  taken 
the  place  of  old  Dick  Tomlinson  was  likely  to  fulfil 
his  duties  properly.  About  four  o'clock  he  found 
himself  once  more  opposite  '  The  Retreat.'  It  was 
on  the  main  road  certainly,  but  it  was  only  recently 
that  he  had  become  aware  of  its  importance  in  the 
landscape.  One  could  not  get  to  the  marsh  or  come 
back  from  it  without  passing  it.  The  windows 
looked  as  trim  as  ever — trimmer  perhaps,  for  short 
muslin  curtains  interspaced  with  embroidery  seemed 
to  have  sprung  up  in  the  night.  They  were  very 
decorative  in  their  way ;  at  the  same  time  they  quite 
shut  out  all  prospect  of  the  interior,  and  there  was  no 
workbox,  piano,  or  suggestion  of  tea  things  to  be 
seen  to-day.  The  foreign  dogs  were  snuffling  in  the 
garden  as  he  passed  the  second  time,  and  one  of  them 
nosed  its  way  through  the  iron  gate  and  ventured  a 
few  yards  down  the  road,  but  just  as  the  squire  had 
made  up  his  mind  it  was  his  duty  to  take  it  back,  it 
returned  of  its  own  accord.  He  watched  the  trim 
maid  come  out  and  call  them  as  she  had  done  the 
day  before,  and  saw  them  rush  after  her  fi'olicking 
round  her  skirt. 


384  A  BED  OF  ROSES 

Suddenly  he  crossed  the  road,  looked  up  and  down 
to  make  sure  there  was  no  acquaintance  within  sight, 
opened  the  iron  gate  of  '  The  Retreat,'  and  passed  up 
the  gravel  pathway  into  the  porch, 

*  Mrs  Fulton  is  at  home,'  said  the  trim  maid 
demurely,  in  answer  to  his  question. 


HBKCAT  nmSS,  BOIMBUBBM 


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